Subterfuge
by mouse8
Summary: Peter has to work undercover, but his allies are unreliable. Neal wants to help, but is apparently expected to stay out of the situation. STORY COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin and USA television and is merely being borrowed for non-profit, recreational purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: T

Summary: Peter has to work undercover, but his allies are unreliable. Neal wants to help, but is apparently expected to stay out of the situation.

Author's note: When I started this story, White Collar was still on the air! It has taken me over four and a half years to complete. For that length of time, you might expect an immensely long story, but this is more a reflection of the fact that my writing time is now mostly confined to vacations, so it is no longer than usual. I hope there are people out there who are still reading White Collar! I was encouraged last summer when I went for a hike in Utah wearing a WC t-shirt and was stopped by four different people who expressed their love for the show.

This can be considered an AU. In my head canon, seasons 5 and 6 do not exist.

The story is completely written, but not fully betaed. I will post as fast as possible, but at a pace that will not stress out my wonderful beta, Nonny. It is a monumental task for her to insert all the missing commas, so please be patient!

Subterfuge Ch1

All was right in Neal's world as he sauntered out of the elevator on the 21st floor on a brisk Monday morning in late fall. He was swinging his hat jauntily between two fingers. The strong wind that had threatened to forcibly remove it had tousled his hair and reddened his cheeks but had left his mood unruffled. With the warmth of the memory of a wonderful weekend, even the prospect of mortgage fraud couldn't dim his spirits. Under the guise of research for a fairly cold case, Peter had taken him out of his radius to the Omni Fine Art Museum and then had let him wander around to his heart's content while Peter took El out for lunch at a local restaurant. The jewel in the crown of this wonderful weekend had been the discovery of his favorite Gevrey-Chambertin at a remarkably discounted price at his local wine cellar.

As he pushed open the glass doors, the wattage of the smile he bestowed upon the White Collar staff was correspondingly dazzling. An automatic glance up the stairs showed him that Peter's office was empty, so with only the slightest sigh of resignation that he would pass off as a mere exhalation, he seated himself at his desk and pulled forward a file of paperwork.

Creatively embellishing the dry official forms with details that concealed rather than highlighted his own slightly less than legal contributions to the case kept Neal busy until he was distracted by his need for coffee. FBI sludge did not truly meet that definition, but he'd learnt to tolerate it until something actually containing arabica beans was available. He cast another glance upwards, but Peter hadn't miraculously teleported in, or tiptoed surreptitiously past, while Neal's attention had been focused on his prose.

It wasn't as if Peter's absence had suddenly hit him. Devoid of Peter's steadfast presence, the atmosphere of the FBI building resonated on a less friendly frequency. Peter had never treated Neal as just another tool in the FBI arsenal. From the beginning of their partnership, even when Neal was freshly released from prison, Peter had seen him as a person, as more than his skill set or his criminal record. He'd folded Neal neatly into the family he'd created in the White Collar unit. However, there were plenty of people who liked to remind Neal that he was the red-headed step child. Unsurprisingly, Neal's unparalleled success in his partnership with Peter, and the latitude it had won them, had generated many detractors, and he trod warily outside the White Collar department. There was nothing too overt, and his time in prison had taught him to accept petty harassment without resorting to a higher authority, so he'd never told Peter about the subtle taunts. However, he definitely preferred it when Peter was around to cast his invisible shield of protection.

Neal slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and poked a couple of buttons in the faint hope of finding a missed message, but it remained blandly uninformative. His good mood was melting rapidly at the edges like ice cream left out on a hot day. An artless stretch gave him an excuse to look around and see if Peter's non-appearance was causing concern elsewhere in the department, but everyone looked appropriately occupied, mostly by work, but in a couple of places by gossiping among colleagues. He eyed Diana working diligently at her desk and planned an approach, detouring to the sludge machine. He poured himself a mug and one for Diana, just the way she liked it. There wasn't a single person in the room whose coffee and pastry preferences weren't known to him. In the world of business, including the FBI, coffee was the perfect entree, a conversation starter and social lubricant.

He sauntered casually over to Diana, placing the cup down with a gesture of one bestowing a gift before hitching his rear end onto one corner of her desk.

"What do you want, Caffrey?" She didn't glance up, and it occurred to him that while she might be the most informed member of the room, but she was also the least likely to be receptive to his blandishments. He liked a challenge.

"You look thirsty," he said in his most innocent tone.

There was a moment of silence, then Diana pursed her mouth in an effort not to react, but a strong tic broke through. She allowed a reluctant grin to cross her face, threw down her pen and looked up at him consideringly. "Okay, you have my attention."

"I was merely admiring the precision of your penmanship. You see the way your j…"

She slapped his hand away but without any real irritation. "Keep your forging digits away from my paperwork, Neal." At his wide-eyed expression of hurt, she sighed. "Peter got called into a meeting at the DOJ with Hughes. I don't know what it's about or how long it will last." She picked up her pen again. "Next time you want to know something, just ask."

Neal unhitched himself with a graceful shimmy. "Now where would be the fun in that?" The truth was that such a simple expedient hadn't occurred to him. In his world, information was currency, acquired by guile or charm, siphoned away from its possessor, and it was not to be squandered. He returned to his desk only partly satisfied, the information gained not very enlightening. He didn't like the feel of this development. It sounded serious, and Peter either hadn't known of it beforehand or he'd kept it from his CI. The small paranoid part of Neal, that was nurtured as a family friend by Mozzie, wondered if any part of the meeting was about him, and he scoured his brain and new case files for any cause for concern, any past crime that might have bobbed up to the surface like a bloated corpse. His conscience, while offering little reassurance, did insist there was nothing DOJ-worthy in his recent activities.

A more comforting part of his brain reminded him that Peter's job involved far more than being a handler to a trouble-prone CI, and that this meeting probably concerned something more mundane and administrative. Feeling suddenly motivated to prove his worth to the department, Neal settled down with some cold cases. In a sudden excess of zeal, he worked through lunch and was touched when Jones dropped a ham and gruyere panini on his desk with a reminder that he needed to eat. It fueled a discovery that the art heist he was investigating was probably actually insurance fraud since the artwork in question was a forgery.

It was well after lunch that Peter and Hughes finally returned. Neal made his living from reading people, and he'd studied Peter with particular care and attention, learning to recognize the subtlest twitch or tic. From the instant he laid eyes on his partner, he knew that something was wrong. There was tension in the set of Peter's shoulders, an uncomfortable line that spoke of more than bureaucratic stress. However, the frown lines marring his forehead faded as he caught Neal's gaze. He gave a slight shake of his head and the smallest smile to indicate that there was nothing imminent to worry about, and Neal settled back into his chair.

His instincts clamored to follow his partner up the stairs, but that head shake had counseled patience. The two senior agents disappeared into Hughes' office for another conference. Whatever was said in the room, it didn't do anything to relieve the cloak of stress that enveloped Peter, weighing him down. He emerged from the meeting tight-lipped, the taut set of his jaw a clear message to Neal that his handler was unhappy with the proceedings.

Peter called a team meeting, but he mentioned nothing about the DOJ meeting, focusing on the briefing for their new case, which involved an identity theft ring. Neal listened to every word said and offered his own ideas and suggestions, but his attention was focused primarily on Peter's demeanor not his words. His shoulder muscles, which had been clenched in sympathy with Peter's, started to relax as the normality of the situation appeared to ease the tightness of Peter's stance. Before long, the team had isolated the probable source of the information used for the thefts, and they were narrowing in on the culprit with a diversity of possible plans to prove his involvement.

As Peter dismissed everyone with their individual assignments, Neal stayed in place. It wasn't unusual behaviour for him since he was Peter's partner, and it was his prerogative to claim extra face time with the Boss. His feet were propped up on the table as he spun a pen between his fingers, the epitome of nonchalance, and he smiled winningly up at his friend as the agent turned to look at him.

"Are we having this conversation now?" Peter arched an eyebrow, obviously divining the ulterior motive behind Neal's tarrying. Neal shrugged expectantly, sensing that Peter was more likely to confide in him if there was no pressure applied.

"Let me rephrase that." Peter brought down a hand in a cutting-off gesture. "We're not having this conversation now."

Neal inclined a shoulder, allowing the slightest twinge of disappointment to show, confident that only someone who knew him extremely well would notice.

Peter, unfortunately, was the only person who could not only see it, but also surmise that its appearance was calculated. "Oh, don't look at me with that face."

"I'm not looking at you like...what face? You've clearly got my faces confused."

"Don't even try that. I've got every expression of yours catalogued and cross-indexed for good measure. That's the one that talks of puppies and kicking when I happen to know you don't even have a dog."

Peter might recognise his expression, but that didn't mean he wasn't susceptible to it when it was applied with good reason. Neal fell back on his absolute last resort - honesty. He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender or good faith. "Not a dog in sight, just a friend in trouble that I'd like to help."

Clearly, he'd underestimated the efficacy of honesty. Amused suspicion immediately softened to affection in Peter's eyes. Peter was aware that the gift of honesty from Neal was the equivalent of a monster box of chocolates and a teddy bear named Snuggles from anyone else. The bubble of weary tension that had been holding him together since he'd walked into the building popped almost audibly, and he sagged as if there was now nothing to keep him upright. He placed both hands on the table allowing it to take his weight. "Neal," he said helplessly, shaking his head. "Look, I can't tell you anything. It's all...it's hush-hush, classified."

"Is that what you're going to tell El tonight?" If he'd thought for more than half a second about the implications of the question, Neal might have reconsidered asking.

Peter turned a shade paler. "Oh God, El." He sat down abruptly on a chair Neal kicked out for him, burying his face in his hands momentarily. "I don't know what I'm going to tell her." Neal shuffled slightly sideways to hide his friend from potentially curious eyes in the bullpen. His strong dislike for the situation leapfrogged over alarm to land squarely on dread. Anything that Peter was loathe to tell El could be officially filed under the category of 'not good'.

It took less than a minute for Peter to rally, tightly strapping down his concerns behind a furrowed brow and a clearly burgeoning headache. "Under the circumstances, I feel obliged to point out you're not my wife."

"Partner, wife," Neal waved off such picayune distinctions with an airy hand, startling a genuine smile out of Peter.

"An interesting sentiment, one you should discuss with El - preferably when I'm away watching a baseball game."

"We've both got your back," Neal elaborated on his theory. It was a throwaway remark, a comment on the obvious, but the effect it had on Peter was anything but mundane. The humor drained from his face as if Neal had pulled a plug, blank shutters descending to cover his eyes. It was a reaction so out of proportion to the casualness of the comment that it was obvious that Neal had not just found a sore point, but stepped in and clobbered it hard.

Peter dropped his gaze and started gathering up papers from the table, attempting to conceal his response with a flurry of activity, but Neal's suspicions were already raised. A worm of insecurity wriggled uncomfortably in his brain, suggesting that maybe Peter really didn't trust him to watch his six, but he squashed it immediately. Their lives were too often in each other's hands for him to doubt that bone-deep faith. The answer to the mystery lay elsewhere. His agile mind immediately started wrestling with the problem, rummaging through possible solutions before discarding them one by one until the obvious answer was left standing stark and alone among the slaughtered corpses of possibilities.

"They're sending you out undercover," he blurted out, the words falling out of his mouth unbidden. "There won't be anyone to watch your back."

Peter's jaw introduced itself to his chest in shocked alarm. Suddenly, he was on his feet and striding to the door. Neal reared back at the abrupt movement almost sending the chair flying backwards. He watched as Peter closed the door with a firm hand and stood for a moment watching the movement of the agents downstairs.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Neal said, almost apologetically.

Peter held up a finger. "I.." Neal started to speak again, but the finger rose higher. He successfully obeyed it for all of two seconds. "Peter…" he began again tentatively.

His partner finally turned round. "Don't 'Peter' me. I'm busy trying to be angry with you." However, the strong glint of admiration in his expression belied the words. He reseated himself at the table, rubbing the ache that had settled just above his eyes. "Neal, you can't...I can't…" He shook his head with a wry smile. "I'd appreciate it in the future if you could refrain from mind-reading on FBI time."

Neal was too busy drawing other unpleasant conclusions to pay any attention to the mock reprimand other than noting the implicit confirmation. Peter had always seemed to enjoy going undercover on their White Collar cases and, for someone who was usually emotionally transparent, he was surprisingly effective in a role. But this had been initiated out of office, so he'd clearly been requested by another department, and by his sensitivity to the back-up issue, it was probably deep cover where they'd be no support from family or friends.

"Tell them no," Neal blurted out. "They can't make you do it, right?"

Peter averted his eyes, finding something fascinating on the surface of the table. "It's...complicated," he said softly.

"Tell them I'll do it," Neal volunteered. "You know how good I am undercover."

That brought Peter's head around with a fascinating kaleidoscope of emotion in his expression that flickered past too quickly for Neal to follow, but it definitely started with alarm and ended with warm affection.

"That's…," he broke off, his mouth twisting into an odd line as he pressed his lips together. "I really appreciate that," he finished more formally, but Neal could read the rejection of the idea.

Peter drummed his fingers on the table. "Neal, I need you to stay out of this. I know it goes against every instinct you have, but I need you here. Can you do that for me?"

"If that's what you need," Neal lied unblushingly. Of course, it wasn't a lie in his mind because he didn't believe for one minute that it was what Peter really needed. The agent's whole demeanor from the moment he'd entered the building had screamed his reluctance to accept the assignment. Neal had every intention of having his partner's back whether Peter thought it was possible or not.

Peter, wise to the ways of Neal's prevarications, almost certainly read the rebellion in his eyes behind the limpid acquiescence. His eyebrows drew together in a frown of foreboding which Neal decided to derail. "Don't get all squinty-eyed on me. I understand what you're saying."

Despite the attempt, Peter's train of thought remained firmly on its tracks and his gaze rested on Neal, steady and oddly blank. "I don't think that you do. Look, at the moment this is just a contingency plan. Hopefully, this whole debate will be moot. But, if by any chance the operation does go ahead, I need to know my team is safe and my trouble-magnet of a CI isn't placing himself in unnecessary danger."

"I understand," Neal said with complete and transparent sincerity. He did understand. Peter was trying to guilt-trip him into agreement. However, this time his response seemed to reassure Peter who offered him a tentative smile. "In return, I want you to promise me that you'll let me know if it goes down, that you won't just disappear."

"Fair enough," Peter nodded. "And if I can't speak to you in person, I'll sent you a text with something innocuous like, 'picking up the dry cleaning.'"

"Or something more cryptic like, 'sacrificial goat.'"

Peter huffed out a sigh. "That's not exactly cryptic, or subtle either, for that matter."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Strangely enough, Neal didn't look too apologetic. "Then how about 'Brer Rabbit.'" He relented as he saw Peter's shoulders sag in defeat.

"That's not fair. This isn't what I want." He sounded tired, weariness flattening his pitch and bleaching color from his tone.

It was clear to Neal that he was making a difficult situation even harder for Peter, and he dredged up as genuine a smile as he could. "Why don't we settle on St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost objects and their safe return."

Peter gratefully accepted the proffered olive branch. "St. Anthony it is."

The depleted, bruised air still hung heavily around him, causing Neal to ask, "Have you eaten?"

Peter shook his head. "There were some dried sandwiches masquerading as food, but things were rather intense, and I didn't feel like eating. Still don't."

"Are you sure? We could go out and get some deviled ham. It would make you feel better."

"While I appreciate the supreme sacrifice behind that offer, for now I just want to get back to work. Maybe later."

Neal understood Peter's need to ground himself in work, so he didn't push the issue. He watched as Peter took in a deep breath and eased it out slowly, somehow in the process assuming the persona of Agent Burke, as clearly is if he'd just donned the suit that Mozzie accused him of being, and all the associated paraphernalia. Neal didn't know whether to be impressed that Peter was able to do that, or horrified that he found it necessary to do so.

Neal could assume any mask, become a prince or pauper, the highest detective or the lowest criminal or anything in between. It was a process he enjoyed, more than an act, verging on the genuine exploration of personality and roots. Of all the characters he'd played, the one he knew least was Neal Bennett, and that sad fact had underwritten his frantic and ultimately tragic search for his father. However, Peter was completely, if unconsciously, secure in his own identity. There was no disconnect between Peter and Agent Burke. At most, they were two ends of a short continuum, gradual transitions of Peterness varying only by degrees of relaxation and professionalism. There was no pretension and no illusion, just honesty and bedrock decency that extended from his personal to his professional life. So, all in all, it was disturbing to see Peter need to forcibly assume the role of Boss. However, once the transition was complete, it was flawless.

Normality resumed in White Collar for the next week. They cleaned up the identity theft gang and arrested the leaders before moving on to follow up on Neal's insights into his cold case. He was able to prove that the artwork was forged, but some irregularities in the provenance made it difficult to prove when the substitution had taken place. Their research slowed to a halt, and the case was put on the back burner again while they concentrated on more pressing cases, mostly involving a rash of corporate fraud. It was routine, but to Neal it was a yawning hiatus, the expectant pause before the judge's hammer descended and the executioner whetted his merciless instruments.

During this time, Peter's leadership of his team was as impeccable as always. He commanded with the seemingly contradictory, yet ultimately effective, style of firmness mitigated by the fostering of individual contributions. He encouraged his team to think creatively, using their miscellany of talents and experience to enrich the investigative process. His briefings were upbeat and his sense of humor seemed undiminished, and Neal wondered if he was the only one who noticed the tight lines etched around somber eyes and the constant state of tension bracing his shoulders. Possible Diana did, because Neal intercepted a few worried glances she cast in her boss's direction.

Neal tried to be supportive, but his efforts were hampered by indecision as to whether this was best achieved by overt cosseting or whether Peter would really prefer the reassurance of their customary teasing and friendly one-upmanship. He settled for hanging around Peter's office for the most spurious of reasons, his lighthearted and irreverent comments interrupting any possible opportunity for Peter to brood. He provided comfort in the form of steaming, fragrant cups of coffee, freshly made in a press-pot he brought in expressly for that purpose.

Another successful distraction was a crossword. Like so many things between them, solving a crossword, in the brief moments of free time they shared, evolved into a fast-paced, challenging but highly enjoyable mixture of cooperation and competition with arcane rules that no one except them could follow.

The Thursday following Peter's meeting, Neal was in his friend's office during lunch, engaged in a crossword lightning round while demolishing a sandwich. He was scribbling Peter's answers into the grid, feet crossed at the ankles on Peter's desk, a liberty for which he received a reprimand but no threat of consequences, which he accepted as permission and a worrying sign of Peter's reshuffled priorities. Neal's first indication that something was amiss was the silence that followed his delivery of the latest clue. He looked up with a teasing grin and a sarcastic comment regarding Peter's deteriorating mental faculties on the tip of his tongue. The quip evaporated in the cavern of his mouth when he saw the agent's face. Turning his head to follow the direction of that stare down into the bullpen with a speed that should give him whiplash, he saw three men entering the unit. It didn't take Mozzie and the suits that they wore to label them as government employees. They were clearly not junior agents, nor were they at all out of place in the White Collar environment - but the word that first came to Neal's mind was hardened.

He turned back with a question, but once again the words dissolved as he met Peter's gaze. His expression was impassive, but his eyes told a different story, as dread and distress turned to heavy resignation and, ultimately, acceptance and a very Peter kind of determination. In the face of that stoicism, Neal was speechless, unsure if it was anger or fear robbing him of his usual loquacity. Acknowledging the rarity of silence, Peter offered him a crooked smile, "You'd better go," he said gently.

Neal nodded tightly, his legs obeying the command without instruction from his brain, which apparently had plans of its own. Before he left the room, he had the phone out of his pocket, unlocked and switched on to camera in portrait mode. His timing needed adjustment, so he paused to scribble on the newspaper long enough for his descent of the stairs to coincide with the ascent of the newcomers. He needed to be unobtrusive to the point of invisibility, so he kept over to his side, moving with careful, measured steps. He didn't make eye contact, concentrating instead on moving his fingers as if texting, mouthing the words he was purportedly typing while angling the screen to take some surreptitious shots of the three men. Identifying them would be a useful first step in determining the nature of Peter's assignment.

He kept his pace steady, not looking back despite the temptation. Only when he was seated at the desk and his line of sight made the gesture a natural one, did he glance up. Hughes had joined the group and was leading them into a meeting room. Peter was bracketed by the other agents in what should have appeared like a position of security, but to Neal's jaundiced eye, it looked like his friend was being ushered, a death-row inmate being escorted along the Green Mile. They vanished into the room and closed the blinds, cutting off visual access.

Neal wished he'd been more proactive and planted a bug from Mozzie's vast menagerie on Peter, but the mental kick he administered to himself for the lapse achieved nothing. Rather than castigating himself for the things he hadn't done, he needed to take some positive action. He glanced around at his co-workers and got the distinct impression that he wasn't the only one who disliked this new development. Jones was very pointedly not looking upstairs, but he was glaring at his paperwork as if he had a grudge with the tree it sprang from and every intention of turning pyromaniac to solve the problem once and for all. In contrast, Diana looked more worried than angry and gazed at the closed room with blind intent, keyboard forgotten under her fingers. Neither reaction was remotely reassuring.

Making a quick decision, Neal got up again, strolled down the room and parked himself on Diana's desk. Smiling winningly, he reminded her, "You told me to ask you if I had any questions."

He'd swear that he could hear her roll her eyes before she looked up at him blandly. "I did say that, didn't I? Well, we all make mistakes sometimes."

Neal regarded her with the slightly smug assurance that came from the knowledge he was going to get his own way, because anything else would teach him the wrong lesson. By her huff of exasperation, Diana obviously realised it too. "If your question is 'what is going on?', I can't help you. I don't know." The frustration in her voice was evidence of the veracity of the statement.

"You must have a theory," he persisted. "What do you think is going on?"

"To be honest, my first reaction was that you had done something stupid and Peter was being called on the carpet for it."

Neal grimaced. "Nice, thanks." However, he couldn't bring himself to feign real umbrage since that had been his first suspicion as well.

She shrugged unapologetically. "I've also considered the possibility that he's being pressured to take a promotion that's out of New York. But whatever it is, I don't think he's happy about it. Doesn't it seem to you that he's been tense lately?"

Neal shrugged uninformatively, preferring to listen to her speculate as she continued, "Maybe there are some major financial cutbacks and some of us are losing our jobs. I don't know; it could be anything." She sat back and skewed him with a perceptive eye. "What do you think is going on? You're closer to him than any of us." It was said without resentment, merely a statement of fact. "He's your partner, some kind of weird yin to your yang."

Neal grinned. "You know that would make him...you know, never mind." This wasn't the time to be discussing Daoist philosophy. He shrugged. "Peter can be be very secretive when he wants to be." That was the absolute truth, but it also didn't reveal the vague secret Peter had confided in him. If this hadn't been shared with the rest of the team, he must have had a reason, and Neal wouldn't take the risk of endangering his friend by discussing it with anybody.

It was clear to him by this time that he knew more about Peter's clandestine meetings than Diana did, but that didn't mean that she possessed no potential as an information source. "Do you know the three guys up there?"

"The older guy, nearly bald, he's Matt Brown, the deputy director of the FBI."

"Of the New York office or the whole FBI?"

"The whole FBI. He's an agent's agent, worked his way up from the field," she confirmed with obvious respect.

"Wow, Peter's consorting with the top brass. Is that why you thought it was a promotion?"

"Well, it's one possibility. The other two I don't recognise, and I'm fairly sure that they're from out of town, so the new job might be in another office. Peter's happy where he is, so it would explain his reluctance. El would probably be the only one who'd be happy if he was promoted since he wouldn't be out in the field so much. But it's not Peter."

"Solid deductions," Neal said approvingly. "It makes sense." It did, but not the way Diana meant it. It wasn't just another department poaching Peter, but an entirely different office which meant the chances of him being recognised under cover would be negligible. That might be the good news. The bad news was that he wouldn't have backup from those he trusted. It still had to be a significant case for someone of Peter's seniority to be requested and for the Deputy Director of the FBI to be involved.

Neal's gaze was drawn back upwards. "Whatever it is, I don't like it. It doesn't seem right." He looked back at DIana hopefully. "I don't suppose you have any surveillance equipment in your desk?"

Diana laughed. "Strangely enough, my career so far has been successful without attempting to bug the Deputy Director of the FBI, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Neal sighed mournfully. "That's the trouble with bureaucracies like this. There's no initiative amongst the rank and file."

She didn't rise to the bait. "Go back to your desk, Caffrey. I'm sure Peter will bring us up to date soon. Meanwhile, don't do anything that would bring us extra scrutiny from the DOJ."

It was advice that Neal took to heart, if 'took to heart' meant considered carefully and attempted to subvert. He sat back down and, while waiting for Peter to re-emerge, he twiddled a pencil around his fingers and tried to think of a crime he could commit either anonymously or with full disclosure that would not land him in jail, but would convince the department that Peter was absolutely indispensable in his current position. It was possible to achieve the objectives individually, but he failed to find a way that would accomplish them both together.

After a while, he started doodling, a well-tested and proven method of relieving stress, but after producing a sketch of closed doors and another of tightly cinched handcuffs, he decided that his subconscious wasn't offering any help and that he needed a way to keep his mind active. He accessed the FBI's website and did some research on the job responsibilities of the assistant director, but there was nothing that offered a clue. For good measure, he went through all the other publicity photos to see if he could recognise the other two men, but that proved to be another dead end.

Neal's excellent peripheral vision notified him as soon as there was movement near the door of the meeting room. Peter emerged first, his face impassive but drawn. His eyes flickered down momentarily to meet Neal's, giving a minute head shake and his forefinger tapped once on his thigh, a shared signal that caused Neal to relax back into his chair. It contained oddly conflicting implications since it was their code for 'situation is under control, don't move in.' yet the very fact that Peter felt the necessity to send a message in such a clandestine, covert manner in the middle of the FBI building sent alarm skittering down Neal's backbone. He tried to appear nonchalant, focused on his computer screen, but in reality he followed Peter's progress with the rapt, almost frozen, intensity usually reserved for a predator stalking his prey.

The agent retrieved his coat and a briefcase from his office before rejoining the three strangers at the head of the stairs. Again, Neal had the overwhelming impression that they were escorting him downstairs. If Peter hadn't led the group, it could have almost been a perp walk. Silence had fallen over the unit, everyone watching with varying degrees of unabashed curiosity. Even Hughes was watching, looking more aloof than usual as he glared down from his perch in the upstairs corridor. Peter didn't acknowledge the interest, looking neither right nor left as he strode towards the exit. Neal was expecting the same lack of attention, so he was as surprised as anyone when Peter suddenly veered towards his desk. The slight alarm in the expressions of the escorts didn't escape his attention. Neal kept the tension out of his muscles, swiveling slightly back and forth in his chair, but he was ready to follow whatever cue Peter threw him.

Peter's eyes conveyed an urgent message, but his words couldn't have been more innocuous. He tapped the newspaper lying open at the crossword page on Neal's desk. "Don't miss five down - St. Anthony."

Neal automatically mimed appropriate chagrin and started scribbling in some letters. By the time he looked up, Peter was outside the doors, only the top of his head visible over the stockier bodies of the other agents who were ushering him into the elevator. Then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: I'm thrilled to find so many people - old friends and new - are still interested in White Collar and reading the fanfic. Thank you all for reading and especially to those who took the time to comment. I try to respond to everyone who is signed in or contacts me directly. However, the reviews are arriving in a different way now, and I might have missed someone. If so, many apologies. Enjoy!

Subterfuge Ch 2

The sense of loss as Peter left was immediate and sharp, but Neal had no time to dwell on it. The pool of silence had broken into little eddies of excited, but muted, speculation that were dampened by a stentorian call from above. "Agent Barrigan. My office, now."

Neal was left alone to parse the meaning of Peter's cryptic message. St. Anthony was easy; that was their prearranged signal indicating that Peter's undercover assignment had been activated, but Neal knew his partner and was sure that every word uttered had been carefully considered and selected for a specific purpose. Neal looked at the clue for five down in the newspaper - the capital of Bahrain - but that provided him with no inspiration, which probably wasn't surprising since Peter would have been very lucky if any of the clues offered the exact language he needed. The relevant information must lie in the choice of number and its direction. The five probably referred to a time and since down clues were always the second listed, he would guess that meant 5 pm. Peter had stressed the words, "Don't miss," so Peter was instructing Neal to meet him at 5 pm without fail. There was no language to indicate a location for this assignation, but it would have to be somewhere that wouldn't set off alarms on Neal's anklet. If Peter had an easy way of shaking off his escorts, this cloak and dagger would have been unnecessary, so there was only one place that Peter could mean, and that was his home.

So, by 5 pm, Neal needed to get to Peter's house in Brooklyn. He glanced unobtrusively at the time on the computer screen. That gave him almost two hours before he needed to extract himself from the office, and that delay would hopefully conceal his intent to follow his handler. He was about to kill the intermediate time by working on their current case when he abruptly changed his mind. If the White Collar solve rate plummeted to abysmal new depths, the powers-that-be might reconsider their decision to send Peter away the next time. Besides, it might look suspicious if Neal didn't appear at least marginally upset by his friend's unexplained departure. Sticking his feet on his desk in a somewhat defiant gesture, he lay back in his chair and threw his rubber band ball in the air, playing his own personal game of catch. No one interrupted for a while, either recognising it as a form of meditation that helped him think or ignoring it in favor of their own concerns.

"Caffrey!" Diana's voice eventually cut through his deliberations. He plucked the ball from the air without looking and swung his feet to the ground in a smooth move. She was too classy for the double finger point, but jerked her head as a summons. He obeyed at an unhurried pace that still held enough speed not to be called on recalcitrance. She led the way into Peter's office, shutting the door firmly behind them. Neal wasn't sure where this was going, but he disliked it already. "The guy is only gone for fifteen minutes and already you're taking…"

"Shut up." Diana rounded on him. "What did Peter say to you?"

Unsure what Peter had shared with Hughes and what Hughes had, in turn, shared with Diana, Neal could only play for time. "What are you talking about?"

"Peter passed on some kind of message to you. What was it?"

Neal affected a slight air of bewilderment. "The thing about St. Anthony? Don't you remember? It was our code word for… oh, that's right, you weren't there for that operation. It was our codeword for 'situation under control, don't move in'. I guess it was Peter telling me not to worry."

It wasn't exactly a lie, more a case of deliberately confusing the two signals he'd received from Peter. Not that Neal had any qualms about lying. At a very young age, little Danny Brooks had been taught that not only was it permissible to lie, it was actively encouraged. From that time on, truth had become a fluid concept, a tool to be employed. As he grew older, he learned that prevarication and misrepresentation were an important part of social engineering, a surface polish that made relationships and business work more smoothly. Not only did he lie unblushingly, he did it with enthusiasm, flaunting it as a personal form of creativity. It was part of his artistry - challenge and ornamentation layered with skill.

Peter, however, was the exception to all of that, as he was the exception to so many things. He had almost always been able to see through Neal's lies, one of the main reasons they could be friends. It wasn't as if Neal were 'hand on the Bible, cross your heart and hope to die' truthful to Peter either, but Peter had carved out a line for himself that Neal was reluctant to cross, a position uniquely his own. Diana might be Peter's proxy and a friend, but Neal's loyalty was unquestionably to Peter first and foremost, and until he'd met with his partner, he wasn't going to let any of his knowledge slip.

Diana didn't look suspicious, merely frustrated and worried. He took that as a cue to express some concern of his own. "Why? What's going on? What did Hughes say?"

"Peter has apparently been asked to take charge, temporarily, of another department on the other side of the country. He should be back in a couple of months. In the interim, I'm to be your handler."

Neal tried on an excited expression, and allowed it to fail spectacularly. He felt that he should say something suave, but his mind was blank. "A handler with fashion sense," he managed finally. "That's...that's different."

"While I appreciate your enthusiasm for this change," Diana said dryly, "It's not really the point right now. This whole thing stinks to high heaven. Hughes didn't even try to make it plausible. Peter was sent to an unspecified location for an indeterminate length of time, and we're not to contact him. He's not even allowed to say goodbye to us."

"What does it mean?" Neal asked with a convincing amount of alarm in his voice.

It suddenly seemed to occur to Diana that this speculation wasn't professional and was unlikely to assist her in the thankless task of keeping Neal in check in Peter's absence. "I guess we'll find out when they want us to know," she said shortly. "Meanwhile, we'll do our jobs as Peter would want us to."

Neal decided it would be out of character not to challenge that assumption. "You can't expect me to accept this. Peter's my partner, and you're telling me that he's potentially in trouble, but I should sit down and behave like a good boy."

"I'm telling you not to do anything that could create more problems for him. Keep your nose clean and do a good job, and I'll keep you up to date with anything I hear."

Neal gave reluctant and totally feigned assent. He spent another hour at his desk, not even pretending to work, but deciding on an excuse to leave work early. He surreptitiously texted Mozzie, who obligingly called his cell phone at the prearranged time, then wandered over in Diana's direction still chatting over the line, stopping in front of her desk to say, "Hang on, let me ask her."

Holding a hand over the microphone he said, "Mozzie says he has some information on the LaCivita case. He wants to meet with me. Is that okay?"

She barely glanced at him. "That's fine." She checked her watch. "It's probably not worth coming back. I'll see you here tomorrow morning."

Neal hummed a quiet acknowledgement and quickly gathered his things together before she could change her mind. He hoped she wouldn't be too diligent about checking his tracking data, but it wouldn't be hard to find an excuse if she did.

He approached Peter's house cautiously, avoiding the front when he saw the two large black cars with tinted windows parked outside. He let himself in the back gate carefully, remembering the last time he'd done that while Elizabeth had distracted the Federal Marshals with cookies by the front door. Poor Elizabeth. As much as Neal truly hated the events of the day, it would be most devastating for El.

Peter's 'bodyguards' might be inside the house, so Neal couldn't just walk in. He thought of some surreptitious ways of informing Peter of his presence, but after a glance at his watch, he merely sat down on Peter's garden furniture and waited. At precisely five o'clock, the back door opened and Peter's face peered round, smiling when he saw Neal. He held up a finger to indicate that he'd be right back, then vanished back inside, reappearing a minute later bearing two steaming cups of hot chocolate, one of which he deposited into Neal's waiting hands.

"I see you got my message," he started neutrally, blowing across the top of his cup.

"Not the most challenging puzzle I've deciphered," Neal returned. "But I have to ask, was that level of secrecy really necessary?"

Peter grimaced. "They are taking absolutely no risks with this operation. Every precaution has been put in place to prevent leaks of information, deliberate or inadvertent. They've taken my phone, and I'm not allowed any contact with my team."

Neal wondered if he'd escaped that prohibition on a technicality or whether Peter had flouted the rules for some deeper purpose. "Well, just so you know, your cover story needs work. They might as well have announced you'd been kidnapped by aliens. Your team are not the most gullible of people, and they object to losing their leader with only flimsy transparent lies offered as explanations."

"Security apparently trumps explanations in their book."

"Are they in there?" Neal nodded towards the house.

"No, I insisted on a couple of hours to say goodbye to my wife privately."

"How is she doing?"

For a long moment, Peter said nothing, the pain in his eyes answering for him. "I never wanted this for her," he murmured, his voice rough as though something was lodged in his throat. "The thought of her alone and afraid…" His voice trailed off, but it was all there, every single word of it in Peter's pinched face.

Not wanting Peter to finish the sentence, Neal reached over and grabbed his wrist. "Don't do this," he said impulsively. "Just tell them no. I'll do it. No, no, just listen." He overrode Peter's formative protest. "Please, just listen."

Peter sat back, his expression clearly stating that the condemned man might not be eating a hearty last meal, but he was willing to listen and humor a friend. It wasn't the eager acceptance Neal was hoping for, but he'd take what he could get. Warily, he released Peter's arm as if afraid the agent might vanish in a puff of smoke once that point of contact was gone. He summoned up all the arguments that had sounded so persuasive in the privacy of his own head. Pointing at the outstretched thumb of his left hand, he started with his strongest argument. "El needs you. This isn't fair on her. She would be completely devastated if anything happened to you."

Looking at Peter's shuttered, but grim, expression, Neal knew he wasn't saying anything his friend hadn't already considered, but that clearly didn't make it any easier to hear. Feeling uncomfortable, Neal moved on, unfolding his forefinger. "I, however, have no real family." This point didn't seem to find any more favor than the last. Peter's face was drawn into a frown and he seemed to be on the verge of objecting, so Neal quickly ticked off the next finger. "You are irreplaceable in the White Collar department. No one leads the team the way you do or can provide the insight and the strategy."

A quick peek showed him that Peter looked gratified at this argument, so he continued with more conviction. "You're good undercover, but I'm better. I've spent most of my life pretending to be someone I'm not, and you know I can pull it off." Only his pinky was left folded in his palm. He uncurled it and jabbed at it forcefully. "Diana - seriously? I was released into _your_ custody, and I don't appreciate being handed off like a unappetizing fruitcake."

The sun had gone down, the air temperature dipping to an unpleasant chill, but Neal knew it wasn't the cold, but adrenaline-fueled tension that caused the tremors that were hijacking his motor control, seizing unexpected muscle groups and shaking them until he consciously relaxed the clenched fibers. Peter seemed unconcerned with the reasons behind the shuddering. Without speaking, he stood up and entered the house, returning a minute later with two blankets, one of which he draped around Neal's shoulders, reserving the other for himself. For a moment, in the fading light, he looked like a stranger, remote, a stern intractable resolve hardening the planes of his face and tightening the line of his jaw, but as he sat back down, wrapping the blanket around himself like a tired child, a fond smile softened his face as he looked at Neal, and he was suddenly recognisable again.

He gazed at Neal expectantly and asked, "So, are you done?"

"No," Neal shot back, "I've got another whole hand," and he wriggled the digits that represented more points that he longed to make, but he already knew it was a losing proposition.

Peter picked up Neal's forgotten hot chocolate and placed it in the threatening hand. "Drink this instead. It'll make you feel warm."

Neal wrapped both hands around the cup, and the radiating heat chased the incipient frostbite back to a tepid ache. "Why?" he asked, almost plaintively. It didn't make sense. Peter hadn't wanted to accept the assignment and, by taking it, he was breaking promises to Elizabeth, so why had he said yes? What leverage were they holding over him? Peter didn't care about promotions, glory, or making headlines. He was focused on taking care of his people, solving mysteries and catching the bad guys. It couldn't be anything the FBI was offering, or even threatening...unless...

A truly hideous thought struck him, and he grabbed Peter's arm again, splashing some drops of his drink onto the table as he did so. "It's not me is it? They're not using me against you to make you do this?"

All amusement vanished instantly from Peter's face, to be replaced by wary concern. "What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

"They're not threatening to throw me back in jail if you don't do this?"

"Of course not." Peter laughed, and it was only much later that Neal wondered if there was too much relief in that laugh. "This is the FBI, not the Mafia. I promise you I'm taking this job of my own volition. I am not being coerced. Look, I'd really like to explain, but…" He broke off, staring at the drops of hot chocolate pooled on the table top. In the fading light they looked like gouts of congealing blood, but Neal was fairly sure the agent was seeing something different.

That suspicion was confirmed a minute later when Peter asked softly, "Were you here for 9/11?"

Neal started to answer, but then the implication of the question penetrated, sliding in like a cold knife between the ribs. "A terrorist attack?"

Peter looked at him steadily, and Neal could almost hear the unspoken, ' _I can neither confirm or deny…_ ' Suddenly everything made sense, as if pulling off the shrouding dust cloth to reveal the work of art beneath. Peter continued achingly, compellingly, "Did I tell you I lost several friends that day." One last whisper wafted across the table like the deadly creep of poison gas, like a declaration of war. "Did I tell you Elizabeth visited a client in the Twin Towers the day before."

Neal closed his eyes for a moment to block out the anguish and awful resolve on his friend's face. The idea of Peter without Elizabeth was an abomination, a misshapen mockery of reality. Peter was a strong, self-sufficient, confident individual, yet by some mystical magic of spousal mathematics, El completed him. It was a practical, down-to-earth relationship built of constancy, unquestioning trust and love. It contained none of the grand gestures that Neal himself espoused, yet in the back of his mind, it was the benchmark against which all romances were measured.

Peter's protectiveness was perhaps his most defining characteristic, and a threat to Elizabeth, no matter how indirect, would certainly arouse those instincts, although it probably wasn't necessary considering the potential loss of life. It explained why Peter said yes, but it didn't explain why he'd been asked.

"Why you?" he asked, resignation fighting with passion to produce a hybrid whine. "You're not a member of the terrorism unit, and there has to be someone who's less...less...less..." Peter's eyebrow racked up an additional notch with each repetition of the word 'less'. "Someone who doesn't reek of rectitude," Neal finished, waving a disapproving hand at his friend's forthright decency. "Mozzie would tell you - even when you're not wearing a suit, you exude suitness."

Unable to decide if he was being complimented or insulted, Peter ignored the peripheral commentary to concentrate on the original question. "The FBI has an informant," he began slowly, not wanting to reveal too much confidential information. "However, they feel he isn't exactly reliable and want someone working with him. I met the guy on a case some years ago and made what some would consider an irregular promise to a criminal."

"Which you kept," Neal supplied the obvious corollary. "Of course you did. Rectitude, remember?"

Peter shrugged dismissively and kindly didn't point out that they wouldn't both be sitting there if Neal hadn't benefited from the same honorable reliability. "He says I'm the only person in the Bureau that he trusts."

Neal could certainly empathise with that statement. There might be other agents with Peter's competency, creativity and bedrock decency, but Neal had never met them. There was no one else to whom he would entrust his life unquestioningly. "I get it," he stated reluctantly. "I hate it, but I get it."

Peter nodded his acknowledgement of the dual statement. He checked his watch, then leant forward confidingly. "I've only got 'til six. They're taking me away then, and there's things I need to discuss with you. You know your," he mimicked Neal's ticking off points on his fingers, "were convincing arguments, except for one." He pointed at his forefinger. "You do have family. Try telling El, Mozzie and June that you don't. You're part of my family, and that's why I asked you to come here."

Peter might be constitutionally honest, but he was no more emotionally open with his friends than the next guy, hiding feelings beneath sarcasm and between crunchy layers of dry wit, competitiveness and teasing. However, urgency had now forced him to drop his normal facades and his eyes blazed into Neal's, demanding that he reciprocate. Peter's friendship meant more to Neal than he could comfortably express. He was still a little confounded and occasionally humbled (not a frequent event) by the fact that he'd apparently earned such loyalty, affection, and in the areas that really mattered, trust.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked quietly, in such a way that it was clear that this was an offer without limits or restrictions.

It was the right thing to say as was evidenced by the tension easing from the set of Peter's shoulders and the warmth of pride that darkened his gaze.

"Take care of El while I'm gone." It wasn't so much a request as the ceremonial passing on of a sacred duty.

"Of course," Neal replied immediately. "You don't even have to ask."

Peter dragged a finger idly through the spilled drink, drawing an abstract pattern. "I know that if she called or was in trouble, you'd be right there, but I guess I'm asking for more of a continuous presence, to keep her occupied and distracted. Come over in the evenings to play scrabble, take her out to some high brow art museum on the weekend, drag Mozzie over and watch conspiracy movies about Hitler clones and cold fusion suppression."

"I would love to," Neal answered with genuine delight. "Spending time with El could never be a chore or a burden."

Peter had no intention of arguing with that nugget of wisdom, since it was essentially the golden center around which his personal solar system revolved, but gratitude for the sentiment was evident in his heartfelt smile. He broke eye contact to fish two envelopes out of an inner pocket. One was small and white, and he handed it to Neal immediately. "Please give this to Diana. It explains what I've asked you do and requests that she extend your radius if you give her prior notice and El is accompanying you."

It was a generous offer and not one that Neal had been expecting. "She finds all this highly suspicious you know."

"Without actually telling her about the operation, this letter should allay her worries. Just don't give her any flack. If you mess around on her watch, she'll club you over the head with the butt of her gun like a baby seal."

"I'll behave," Neal assured him quite honestly, reserving for himself the suspicion that it wouldn't be that easy. It wasn't as if he usually intended to get into trouble. "Besides, I'll be too busy…oh!" He broke off as a suspicion broke loose from his good intentions, calving like an iceberg from the larger ice sheet of paranoia lovingly tended and nurtured by Mozzie. "So, tell me," he began, a hint of challenge in his voice. "If I ask Elizabeth, will I find that you've asked her to spend time with me...just to keep me out of trouble?"

There was a twinkle in Peter's eye that confirmed the theory, but he merely said airily, "I have no idea what you're talking about...but it sounds like keeping you out of trouble would be an excellent side benefit to keeping El company."

"So Machiavellian," Neal said with grudging approval. He was actually warmed by the thought, recognising it as Peter's version of caring, ensuring that his family was safe. It did indeed place him in the category of family in Peter's mind.

Peter was turning the thick, brown envelope over in his hands, and with a sudden uncomfortable jolt of intuition, Neal knew he wasn't going to like what came next, and he eyed the stationery with the dubious disdain he usually reserved for arrest warrants. Peter followed his line of sight and grimaced apologetically.

"Sorry, I guess you drew the short straw, but I'm damned well not having this conversation with El."

Neal wanted to explain he'd prefer to paint his toenails pink while quaffing hemlock and playing Russian roulette than have this conversation, but he wanted to be the friend that Peter needed, so he kept his opinion to himself, or at least unverbalized.

"Without being maudlin or pessimistic," Peter began with awkward determination, "we both know there's a greater than usual chance of this operation going sideways, so I need everything to be in order, just in case. I've updated all the necessary documents and sent copies to my lawyer. I'm well insured, so El will be taken care of financially."

Neal bit his lip to avoid commenting on the ultimate futility of that concept and nodded, digging deep for composure. This discussion of Peter's last will and testament made it feel as if Peter were suffering from a terminal illness and a creeping sense of loss, desolate and wild, spawned in his heart.

Peter pressed on, not oblivious to Neal's distress, but driven by the need to stabilize his affairs to protect his family. "I don't think you need any help financially, since I'm sure there are stashes of illegally acquired bounty still scattered throughout the country." He shrugged at Neal's exaggerated look of innocence. "You don't buy your wine collection on the amount the FBI is paying you! However, your legal status is more problematical." He thrust the envelope towards Neal who made no move to take it. "This is only to be opened in the event of my death. The only thing you need to know now is that I've ensured you won't go back to jail. Everything else can wait. Just promise me you won't open it unless you know for sure I'm not coming back."

On the brink of leaving for this dangerous operation, Peter was still focused on everyone but himself. On one level, Neal appreciated being included in that inner circle of care more than he could say, but it was more important to redirect Peter's focus before he could finishing drawing his sword to throw himself on it.

"I got a 'C' in language arts in the sixth grade."

Frown lines of confusion rippled Peter's forehead. "Okay," he said cautiously.

Neal affected surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought we were sharing irrelevant pieces of information about ourselves. Isn't that what we're doing?"

Peter's expression went from confusion to indignation, visited amusement, then recycled through them again for good measure. Eventually, he sighed. "I need to know that the people I care about…"

"No, you don't," Neal cut him off, hard and desperate. "The only thing you need to know is that you're coming back. You have to understand that El is not going to be alright if you get yourself killed. I'm not going to be alright. The people who love you will never be alright without you. So you have to know that you're going to do whatever you need to to come back to us. El needs you alive and so do I. I refuse to break in another partner. So you don't get to comfort yourself with platitudes and paperwork. You fight and you keep fighting and you don't quit until you're back here with your family." He wasn't quite sure when his finger had jumped out and started jabbing itself at Peter's chest, but he had no intention of retracting it. It was harsh, almost cruel, but Peter needed to hear it.

Peter fixed him with his unblinking stare of displeasure, which in Neal's mind should have acquired Trademark status. It made subordinate agents quail in their patent Italian leather shoes and hardened criminals beg to sign confessions. Neal met it head on and didn't flinch, the belief that he was right even fueling a reciprocal glare of his own. Eventually Peter's expression softened to thoughtfulness. "You got a 'C' in language arts?"

"Well, there was a girl named Annabel…"

"That makes sense now." Neal could almost see him file the information away in his ever expanding collection of Caffrey trivia.

"Seriously? That's what you take away from that speech?"

Peter rolled his shoulder, and the ghost of despair drifted away in wisps that dissolved completely to be replaced by fierce determination. "Okay, I'm coming back. That's a promise."

Neal managed to turn a sigh of relief into a normal exhale. "With that end in mind." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Memorise this number."

Peter read it over. "Got it."

"If you ever need help, call that number. It's untraceable. Leave a time and a place and I'll be there."

Peter threw another glance at his watch. "Ten minutes." The number was a short countdown to departure.

Neal drew the blanket more tightly around himself as a chill, more internal than external, intruded on his senses.

"One more thing," Peter said urgently. "I need a way for you and El to be able to contact me. They've taken my cell phone, and I have no idea where I'm going to be, but I need to know that if there's an emergency, you have a way to reach me."

"Peter!" Neal was ready with another lecture on how he needed to concentrate on his own problems, but it was nipped in the bud.

"It will help me focus on the job at hand if I'm not wasting energy worrying about what's happening at home. You're the expert at this type of thing. What would you suggest?"

After a moment's thought, Neal proposed, "The best way is for me to take out an ad in the paper if there's an emergency or something you need to know. Since we don't know where you're going, we'll make it the New York Times since it's the nearest thing to a national paper. Read the personals. I'll take out an ad for a yard sale at St. Anthony's."

"That works," Peter nodded with relief. He stood up somewhat stiffly. "Come inside. It's too cold to sit here any longer. Just stay out of sight in the kitchen until I've gone."

Neal had no intention of refusing that invitation since he already appeared to have lost contact with his toes. However, as he rose to his numb feet, all thoughts of physical discomfort vanished, forced out by the realisation that this was goodbye and possibly not just a temporary farewell. Despite his forced optimism, Neal was very aware that this might be the last time he saw his friend, and he couldn't process the idea. How could he find words for someone who had had such a profound impact on his life, reversing its course and giving him a home and a family? He locked all his emotions in a small box in the back of his brain and took a deep cleansing breath.

The last time they'd been separated for any meaningful length of time, it had been Neal walking away, or, technically, absconding illegally from the country. He could still recall the tearing pain of that departure, but it didn't compare to his unhappiness now. It felt as if his chest was caving in, his lungs unable to draw in the next breath. There was so much he wanted to say, yet even if he'd found the vocabulary to express it, to do so would sabotage his recent pep talk insisting that Peter would return. Instead, Neal stepped forward, holding out a hand and tried to keep his voice from stumbling, holding it even and tight from sheer force of will.

"Call if you need anything. If not, I'll see you when you get back."

Peter grasped his hand firmly, then used it to pull him into a hug. He held on tightly for the space of two heartbeats then stepped back leaving an arm slung over his friend's shoulders. "Just stay out of trouble, partner. Things will get back to normal soon."

"Or some variation thereof," Neal contributed. He allowed himself to be drawn into house, relishing the warmth of the central heating that enveloped him as he crossed the threshold, but also of the casual embrace, valuing it all the more for its ephemeralness.

El was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over an untouched drink. She managed a small smile and greeting for Neal, but her focus was reserved for her husband. Her eyes were dry, but the red rings circling them told a story of private grief. It was hard to see such patent distress on a face that always seemed designed for merriment, and Neal could only imagine how exponentially more difficult it must be for Peter, who loved her so dearly and would feel responsible.

It was equally obvious to Neal that El intended to be stoic, presenting a supportive facade for Peter's sake, and not making it any harder than it needed to be for him. She would be the good Bureau wife, except this wasn't a regular day for an agent at the office. This was a soldier going off to war where he'd be out of contact in definite danger for an indeterminate length of time. She hadn't signed up for that and had been given almost no time to acclimate to the idea.

With a last pat on the shoulder, Peter released Neal, moving forward to take his wife into his arms. She melted into his chest as if intending to become part of his molecular structure and thus impossible to separate. Neal averted his eyes to give them at least the illusion of privacy as Peter kissed her gently on the forehead, the fingers of one hand curling around the back of her neck, stroking the soft patch of skin below her ear. His other thumb traced her cheekbone in a simple gesture that was somehow unbearably intimate.

As Neal scratched Satchmo's back, he could hear the sound of Peter's murmuring, the words unintelligible, but the tone unmistakably loving. The quiet tender tableau was broken, brutally shattered, by a knock on the door. There was a wordless, involuntary sound of protest from El, and Peter pulled her closer, his face buried in her hair. Neal would have been happy to have barred the door and left them together, but by some unspoken but mutually sensed agreement, they moved apart. Hand in hand, showing a united front in adversity, they walked towards the door as a second, more impatient knock reverberated.

Neal sidled to the kitchen entrance on silent feet, keeping his friends in sight, but remaining invisible to anyone outside. Peter opened the door and addressed the person standing there. "I'll be right with you. Give me one more minute." He shrugged on a coat, but there were no other possessions in his hands. His undercover assignment required him to leave all the trappings of his life behind. Neal actually approved of that precaution - it was easier to maintain an assumed role without daily reminders of one's real life, and it eliminated the danger of an innocuous set of initials on underwear revealing one's true identity - but he recognized that the sense of dislocation made it even harder to leave.

For a moment, Peter met his gaze across the room and tilted his chin a fraction in farewell. Neal acknowledged the gesture with a nod; everything had been said between them earlier. Even if circumstances had allowed for speech, he would have been unable to work any words around the blockage of heart and stifled breath that stuck in his throat to choke him. As Peter took his last look at El, she pushed the worry out of her eyes and replaced it with steely determination. "I love you, Hon, and I'll see you soon."

They kissed one last time, a fierce and desperate embrace that attempted to burn the memory of that touch into skin that would be bereft for weeks, if not months; then Peter stepped away as if fighting the force of gravity itself. The pain of that physical separation was tangible even to Neal as he watched from his position in the kitchen, yet both husband and wife stood straight, and Neal felt an odd surge of pride at the composure and resolve they displayed.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, take care of each other. I love you." Clearly aware that drawing out his departure merely exacerbated the agony, Peter spared them all the heartbreak of further farewells. Neal caught a last glimpse of his friend, silhouetted tall and solitary in the doorway against the street lamps, before the night stole him, washing in and sweeping him away, leaving El stranded on the doorstep alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thank you all for your support. I'm thrilled that there is still so much interest in White Collar stories.

Peter may have disappeared from the story, but rest assured this is temporary. My stories are always about both characters and the friendship between them.

Subterfuge Ch 3

Car doors slammed, headlights flashed briefly and the purr of expensive engines receded into the distance. The stillness and silence that resumed were emptier than usual, as chilling and bereft of comfort as the night air that blew in the open doorway. The temperature inside plummeted, but El made no attempt to close the door. She seemed frozen in place, an alabaster statue, tragic and desolate, the stark line of her back a bow against the doorframe, the blades of her shoulders too pronounced beneath the thin blue cotton of her shirt and the only movement created by air currents stirring some wisps in her hair.

Neal felt like an interloper witnessing a grief that wasn't meant for his or anyone else's eyes. A small, craven part of him was tempted to slink out the back door, but Peter's rallying cry of, 'cowboy up' rang challengingly in his ears. There was a certain irony in that, considering Peter's own avoidance of crying women. El didn't react as he approached, and it occurred to him that she might well wish to be alone to grieve in privacy. He wanted to close the door, but from the way she was gripping it, it could be the only thing keeping her upright.

"I think we've contributed enough to global warming," he said gently. He was ready for anything as he touched her back supportively - to catch her if she collapsed, to hold her if she cried, or to gracefully accept rejection once she realised that it was the wrong man left in her house. To his surprise, the face that turned up to meet his held no animosity, only an expression of open and quiet devastation. Blue eyes begged silently for reassurance, and Neal, understanding and even sharing that emptiness of loss, wanted to say something that would comfort and ward off the shadows that lurked hauntingly in the darkness of the room. He was a conman, trained to think on his feet, but his verbal tap dancing had slowed to a stagnant stagger. Words flopped around uselessly in his brain, but nothing he could think of sounded like more than an empty platitude. El deserved better.

A slink of movement in the corner of his eye offered inspiration. "Let's take Satchmo for a walk." He knew from experience that action, or at least a combination of movement and distraction, could improve one's mood, preventing the mind from spiralling further into a depressive morass. It had the additional benefit of offering an excuse to wrap Elizabeth in the warmest clothes possible. Standing in the open doorway had left her chilled from head to toe, and he was fairly sure that allowing El to succumb to pneumonia minutes after Peter's departure would be seen as dereliction of his new duties as her caretaker. Of course, the chill that enveloped her was more than physical, and it would take more than several layers of toasty clothing to banish it. Not satisfied with her down-lined coat, he retrieved the Russian hat that Mozzie had given her the previous Christmas and the warmest gloves and scarf he could find. El accepted each item, thanking him mechanically for his assistance, but the shivering that continuously stuttered through her body did not noticeably abate.

Neal had never felt less like talking, but as they walked, he gamely maintained a patter of undemanding comments regarding such innocuous topics as the local architecture, the level of light pollution in Brooklyn and Satchmo's favoring of his front left paw. El's contribution to the conversation consisted mostly of monosyllables at first, but as their feet fell into a brisk rhythm, broken only by Satchmo's search for interesting smells and his urge to overlay his scent on top of possible rivals, the normality of a mundane chore eased her worries. It was impossible for worst case scenarios to maintain their credibility under such pedestrian circumstances, their structural integrity withering with every fire hydrant watered by the golden lab. The culmination of this process was Satchmo's decision to defecate, an irony of synonyms that didn't escape Neal. He politely turned away to allow them both the polite fiction that nothing bowel related was occurring in their immediate neighborhood. He admired the blinking lights of a far-off airplane until the dog returned to brush against his leg. Starting to move on, he realised that El hadn't resumed the walk and he looked back.

"You have to pick it up," she explained.

"I have to...what?" He cast the briefest of glances in the direction she was indicating in the vague hope that she was referring to a fallen handkerchief. His eyes did their best to skate over the dark pile faintly steaming in the cold night air.

"You have to scoop the poop," El elaborated helpfully.

This was definitely not in his job description. He looked at her plaintively, hoping for a reprieve of the 'April Fool' variety, but there was no pity in her expectant gaze. He glanced around frantically for a method of relocation, preferably something that operated remotely like a Star Trek transporter or a wand. He contemplated called Mozzie to see if his Russian surplus supply carried anything for such emergencies - maybe along the lines of a miniature flame thrower. No inspiration presented itself, not even a convenient stick, so he turned to El with a rueful shrug only to find that she was holding out a tiny green bag clearly just removed from a pocket-size, tight roll of such supplies.

Backing away, he held his hands out in front of him as if repelling something demonic. "I would need the proverbial 40-ft pole to go near that. Don't you have a…" A pantomime of jaws opening and closing from afar illustrated his point.

"You mean a pooper-scooper," El articulated with mock clarity. "No, it's no fun carrying one of those around and trying to keep it clean. Disposal is the way to go."

Neal eyed the tiny bag with extreme disfavor. "How's that supposed to work?"

Unsure if he was serious or not, El regarded him uncertainly. "You turn it inside out, stick your hand in, then scoop it up."

Putting on his most innocent expression, Neal asked, "Could you show me?"

It took a moment, but then the twinkle of a smile broke over El's face like a dancing ray of sunshine from behind a particularly low-lying, gray cloud. "Are you trying to con me, Neal Caffrey?" she asked with delight as if he'd offered her an invitation to an exclusive club.

He had been, but it had nothing to do with the task at hand, but rather an attempt to elicit that very reaction. Not willing to lose the ground he'd gained by admitting to a play of any kind, he affected a slight pout. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but for the record, is there any reason you can't clean up after your own dog?"

She tilted her head away slightly, sadness reclaiming her features. "Peter always does it," she admitted softly.

Neal's heart sank at the sight, regretting that he'd pushed the issue, the mention of Peter's name nudging his own sense of loss. He shuffled closer to the coiled mess on the ground, taking the bag in penance, but something in her body language, maybe the slight shake to her shoulders, stopped him and he peered at her suspiciously. "Elizabeth Burke," he said admiringly, "are you trying to con a conman?"

She relaxed her forlorn position. "Trying? I'd say I succeeded there for a moment."

He acknowledged her achievement with a slight bow. "Welcome to the dark side, my lady. Your mastery of our craft is humbling."

"However, I spoke nothing but the truth."

"That is the essence of an excellent con," he confirmed.

"I think you're missing the point. Peter always picks up the poop - after all it is the law."

"Of course. The perils of being partnered to the world's most law-abiding man."

In the orange glow of the streetlight, Neal could see the fond reminiscence in her expression. "He even looks sexy doing it."

"I accept your challenge," Neal responded promptly. He was renowned for his sleight of hand - how hard could it be? Taking a deep breath, he swooped in gracefully and in seconds the bag was tied and held at arm's length by the barest of two fingernails. "Ta-da," he uttered triumphantly.

El pretended to consider his performance. "Full marks for technical merit, but you lose points for artistic impression, especially on your finish. Peter somehow embraces his inner dog owner and owns the necessity of his actions while still maintaining his ruggedly handsome stance."

Neal pointed his free hand at her. "I'm sensing bias in the judge from Brooklyn."

"Guilty as charged. Come on, let's head home. I can't walk any further with you looking like a defective windmill." She gestured at his still outstretched arm. "I'll make you some supper to reward you for your inestimable courage."

They walked back mostly in companionable silence, Neal dropping off his burden with an exaggerated sigh of relief in the nearest trash can. The outing had been beneficial for both of them. It had reset El's self-possession, and it had done more to reassure Neal. Infected by Peter's concern for his wife, he had forgotten just how capable, steadfast and strong she was. This was the woman who meticulously planned parties for hundreds, escaped from captivity without any help from concerned parties and smuggled wanted fugitives past government officials with a sweet smile and home-baked cookies. She would miss her husband desperately, but as long as he came home eventually, she would cope.

Although still a little subdued, Elizabeth chatted readily enough as they threw together a salad, the conversation morphing naturally from food to her upcoming events with Neal offering his opinion on the cuisine and wine selections. It should have been relaxing, but despite El's acceptance, it felt strange for Neal to be in Peter's house without his friend being present. The warmth of the home lovingly established by the married couple remained, but there was also emptiness, a yawning space into which Neal's comments dropped before echoing back unanswered by familiar snark. It left him strangely adrift, his one true anchor torn away.

Despite his attempts to concentrate on the conversation with Elizabeth, his thoughts kept swinging back to Peter with the inevitability of a magnet to true North. Unanswered questions about the assignment swarmed through his brain, agitating the worry that had taken up residence there since Peter had first announced the possibility of going under cover. He wasn't alone in this preoccupation. Despite both he and Elizabeth possessing professional level conversation skills, both capable of polite chit-chat and more profound discussion, the dialogue between them literally petered out.

Neal tried to think of a way to offer to stay the night without sounding presumptuous or condescending, but resigned himself to a certain level of awkwardness. "Look, I know it's been a difficult day for you and I know I don't feel like being alone, so if you'd like me to stay in the guestroom tonight…"

El's face was always expressive, mirroring her feelings, and polite rejection of the idea was obvious, so Neal didn't bother to finish his sentence. A moment later, there was a flash of regretful guilt and remembered duty. "That's not necessary," she said hurriedly, "But I'd really like your company tomorrow night."

Peter's coaching was so obviously behind that proposal that Neal couldn't help retorting, "I'm not sure I've got time between the diamond heist I have scheduled in the evening and the bank job I'm masterminding at night."

El's lips twitched and she responded in kind. "Whereas I will fall into a consumptive decline and fade away if left alone for a night."

Having both acknowledged the absurdity of extreme assumptions between Peter's instructions, the pressure behind their interaction relented. "He really didn't intend it like that," El commented ruefully. "It's just his way of taking care of us while he's gone. It's not that he doesn't trust you. It's just...you do have a tendency to find trouble, or trouble finds you, and it would kill him to come back and find you gone or, worse, in jail."

Neal couldn't in all honesty deny that, and as much as he'd like to believe he was a completely independent operator, he had to admit to the influence of his two best friends, one a stabilizing voice of conscience, the other an imp of mischief, urging him to continue the way of life that was exciting and fun but had landed him in prison. Rather than confess to the validity of Peter's concerns, he decided to focus on El's side of the equation. "He called keeping me out of trouble a side-benefit to spending time with you. It wasn't that he thought you weren't capable of taking care of yourself, he just didn't want you to be lonely."

"I know. He was just looking out for us as usual." She tucked her legs up beside her on the sofa. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I wish that you weren't here."

Before Neal could work out the puzzle of feeling anything but offence at the concept, she continued. "It's not that I want to put you in danger too, but I know I'd feel better about this whole thing if I knew you were there too, watching his back."

A curl of warmth unfurled inside, but the honesty he'd decided on as a policy that evening forced him to admit, "It's usually the other way round. In fact, I always thought you held me responsible for bringing so much trouble to his doorstep."

El did him the courtesy of considering the comment, not dismissing it in a knee jerk, polite reaction. "Maybe occasionally," she acknowledged. "But I know two things. Firstly, since you became his partner, he's been happier, more fulfilled. He enjoys his job, and it doesn't take such a hard toll. Secondly…" she broke off to take a sip of wine, clearly marshalling her thoughts. "I know that if anything happened to him, you would move heaven and earth, do anything legal or illegal to get him back, and that is more reassuring than all the law-abiding good intentions in the world. I should have told you before how much I appreciate that."

Neal dropped his eyes to stare at the amber tones of his own drink. What she said was true and lay as an unspoken trust between him and Peter. Neither man would ever have thought of putting it into words, yet in the secret depths of his heart where no words were needed, Neal knew it was a privilege and treasured it. His father had betrayed him as a child and an adult. His mother had been physically present for most of his childhood, but she was a broken reed, too weak to provide the support and guidance that an active boy needed. Ellen had tried her best, but her life had also been shredded by James' actions, and she was busy providing for them all. The only friend who had ever stuck around was Mozzie, who was endlessly loyal but not exactly dependable.

Peter was the first person who really had his back in every way that counted and, perhaps more importantly, who'd held a line, moral conduct tempered by justice and understanding. There were many things about his relationship with Peter he wasn't sure he truly comprehended himself, and he had no desire to discuss it with anybody, least of all someone so close to Peter.

He offered her a slightly guarded smile. "I can't say I wouldn't much rather it was me out there instead of Peter, and I tried, Elizabeth, I really tried to persuade him. But from what little he was able to share with me, it's clear that this is an important assignment, so I'm sure he'll have excellent backup. Besides, he's really good - resourceful and intuitive. Most of all, he's motivated. He'll do what he has to to come back to you. I'm convinced of that."

Her head dipped down, a curtain of glossy brown hair concealing her expression, so he pushed on, following a different tangent. "I know you have plenty of other friends, and don't need me to prevent you from being lonely, but I would like to come over sometimes, and not just because I'd like to keep my word to Peter. Spending time with you could never be a hardship, and I think it would help me feel more...grounded. However, I don't want you to feel obligated, so I give you my word that I will commit no crimes that could land me in jail until Peter comes back."

He wished he himself knew how much of that was true and how much he was saying for her sake. Before he'd finished the speech, she raised her head, gazing at him intently. Her blue eyes, so different in shape and color from Peter's, were equally discerning, but he accepted and held the gaze, inviting her to read what she could in his expression. The crease in her lips and the relenting of the frown in her forehead told him that she had liked what she discerned and that maybe it was more than he intended.

"Thank you, Neal. Why don't you come over tomorrow night and bring Mozzie if he's free. We can have a three-way game of Scrabble. Just try to make sure he doesn't bring any movies."

"Which conspiracy flick did he try to foist on you?"

"I don't mind those so much. They can be fairly entertaining and lead to interesting discussions. No, last time he brought a bizarre movie about Chinese domino-playing gangsters, and he promised to bring the sequel the next time."

"Tiles of Fire." Neal gave a not-altogether-feigned shudder. "Mozzie's idea of cult classics is a conspiracy by itself. Never fear, I will make sure his questionable taste in movies is not inflicted on either of us."

After exacting a last promise that El would call if she needed anything, Neal left, catching a taxi back to his place. It wasn't exactly a surprise to arrive home to find Mozzie violating the privacy of his room and the sanctity of his wine collection. Despite his quirks and his paranoia, Mozzie had a surprisingly social soul. He only let a few people close, but he liked company. However, Neal was in no mood for conversation. He understood why El had declined his offer to stay. He just wanted time to consider the events of the day, to reflect on his conversation with Peter, and he was also unsure how much of that conversation he wanted to share with Mozzie. While he would trust his friend with his own life, Mozzie's anti-government stance made him reluctant to share too many details about Peter's assignment.

Mozzie looked up as Neal entered and after observing his expression, quoted, "Show a fair presence and put off these frowns."

Removing his coat and hat, Neal hung them up before throwing himself into a comfortable chair opposite his friend. "It's not been the best of days," he admitted.

"The daily oppression of life in government servitude," Mozzie stated knowledgeably.

"You might be right," Neal conceded, "but not for me exactly."

Looking positively gleeful at this admission, happy that his suspicions were confirmed, the little man asked, "Then who?"

"Peter," was the short response.

All thoughts of schadenfreude were instantly wiped from Mozzie's face, the concern that replaced it also giving way in its turn to a forced indifference. The pretence that he wasn't fond of Peter was an automatic defence and one that fooled no one. He shrugged, "Well, you lay down with dogs…"

"You get up with fleas. Not your most original observation."

"I was going to say, you get up with bugs and other surveillance devices," Mozzie said with a wounded air. Seeing that Neal was in no mood to appreciate his prickly humour, he continued, "So, what's up with the Suit?"

"Three higher up suits…" He cocked an eyebrow at this friend. "Tuxedos?" A frown squelched his attempt to copy his friend's nomenclature and he shrugged good naturedly. "One of them being the Deputy Director, came in and dragged him off, ostensibly to temporarily head an office elsewhere."

"Can these dress suits…" Mozzie paused in modest expectation for Neal to wave a hand in acknowledgement of his superior suit classification system. "Can they just waltz in and commandeer him like that?"

"Fundamentally, they need Peter's consent, but by appealing to his sense of duty and loyalty…"

Mozzie whispered something that sounded suspiciously like 'sucker' before asking more belligerently, "What about Mrs. Suit? Doesn't she get a say in this?"

"She understands and supports him. Talking of El - she's invited us both around tomorrow night."

Mozzie brightened instantly, "Great, I'm going to bring…"

Neal, remembering his promise, hastily cut him off. "For a meal and a quiet game of Scrabble."

Mozzie's anticipation was not too deflated by the concept. While his fondness for Peter was tempered by his suspicion of his position, his affection for El was uncomplicated and wholehearted. "So, with the Suit gone, who's holding your leash?"

"Diana's my handler until Peter comes back." Noticing the cunningly contemplative expression that crossed his friend's face, Neal quickly added, "No, this does not mean it's a perfect opportunity for any of the perfect heists you have on your bucket list. She might not be as brilliant as Peter, but she's still good. Moreover, she's far less forgiving. If she even suspected I was up to anything, I would be lucky to escape with moderate evisceration. And don't think she wouldn't come hunting for you."

"The female of the species is more deadly," Mozzie acknowledged.

Glad that he had derailed Mozzie's immediately larcenous impulses, Neal threw him a bone in the form of a peek at a conspiracy. He knew how best to get his friend's help in the situation. "The interesting thing about Peter's departure is that all is not what it seems. Before he was taken away, he got word to me that he's actually being sent under cover."

He probably couldn't have provoked Mozzie's interest more if he'd confessed to being both an alien and the second shooter on the grassy knoll. Shrewd eyes gleamed with interest, but being Mozzie, he didn't ask the obvious questions like, 'what was the job?' or 'what was Peter's cover?' With a mieu of puzzlement he commented, "Isn't that supposed to be your shtick?"

Neal shrugged. "It's complicated, and I don't really know the details," he commented.

Observing his friend's disgruntled expression, Mozzie exclaimed, "You volunteered to go in his place, didn't you?"

To admit to such a rash act, would be to invite the little man's ire, so Neal dodged and weaved past the interrogation. "My actions are entirely irrelevant to the situation. The powers-that-be have this one locked up tight, and that's why I need your help."

He ejected the SD card from his phone and handed it to Mozzie. "There are three men in the picture. One is the deputy director of the FBI, but I don't know the others. If you can help me identify them, I would have a better idea as to what is going on."

"You really don't know what's going on." It was a statement, not a question.

"Peter dropped some very vague hints...Look Mozz, you've got to handle this delicately. I don't want to do anything that might endanger Peter." He ignored Mozzie's offended expression which eloquently spoke of hordes of grandmothers and their egg-sucking experience. "I'm serious, Mozz. This whole situation stinks. This is deep cover, not our usual quick in-and-out with the team as back-up scenario. Just keep your ear to the ground for anything...big."

"Yeah, I got it." There was still an edge of pique in Mozzie's voice. "The bad guys are out to get us, the government is out to get us, the aliens are out to get us. Trust no one. Somehow I think I can handle the concept."

He had a point. Mozzie was 25 percent DNA and 75 percent paranoia. He would take the necessary precautions and be discreet.

Mozzie waved the bottle of wine invitingly in his direction. "Here, drown yourself a little."

The idea contained temptation, but Neal wanted to keep a clear head. "I'll pass. At the moment, my bed is more attractive than the bottle."

Mozzie drained his glass. "I recognize a dismissal when I hear one. I'll leave you to your pining."

"Worrying for Peter is not the same thing as pining," Neal protested tiredly.

"Your pining is so epic it has its own zip code," was Mozzie's parting shot, the door closing smartly behind him.

Neal heaved a sigh. This wasn't going to be easy.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Thank you all for the wonderful comments! Now the action starts to warm up!

Subterfuge Ch 4

Neal hadn't lied about his desire for sleep, but it appeared that he was outvoted by his brain, which ambushed him in the vulnerable interstices between full wakefulness and unconsciousness, replaying the interactions of the evening with obsessive attention to detail.

Heavy-eyed and feeling mentally sluggish, he entered the WC unit the next morning lacking his usual jaunty step. He handed over Peter's envelope to Diana with a brief explanation that he had gone to the Burkes' to check on El the previous evening. She accepted it without comment. He'd been given no specific directions and lacked the motivation to employ himself productively, so he pulled out his smartphone to play a game of FreeCell. Initiative appeared to be in short supply, and the atmosphere was generally oppressive. A few dedicated souls were working in a desultory fashion on the computer, but nobody looked excited by the prospect of paperwork. The problem wasn't so much the vacuum of leadership sucking up personal initiative - Diana and Jones were quite capable of taking charge in Peter's absence - however, the abruptness of his departure had been disconcerting, and no one knew what to expect in terms of a replacement.

Neal beat both his best playing time and shortest number of moves in FreeCell before moving to Angry Birds. Everyone was waiting for Hughes to make an announcement, but he didn't emerge from his office until almost lunchtime. By that time, Neal had given up on electronics and was fashioning a menagerie of origami animals from the defacement of an interesting assortment of FBI forms. The appearance of Hughes as he completed a crane seemed almost like voodooistic summoning.

A buzz of speculation was quickly replaced by an expectant silence. Hughes leaned forward, both hands gripping the rail. He cleared his throat as a way of attracting attention, but it was entirely unnecessary since every eye was already fastened on him. The veteran agent gathered in the weight of that regard, effortlessly wielding his authority.

"While I appreciate we will all feel the loss of Agent Burke's leadership for the next month or so, I do not expect it to affect the smooth running of this department. You are all highly trained and capable professionals."

As the only non-FBI agent in the room, Neal exempted himself from the speech, listening as an analytic bystander and assessing the effect it had on the audience. Over the last few years, he'd developed a healthy respect for the efficiency and capability of the agency and a fondness for many of his colleagues. However, he felt no innate loyalty to the FBI; that was all reserved for Peter, the man who called him partner. In Peter's long-term absence, Neal felt a sense of alienation from the organisation while he watched pride blossom in the faces of the junior agents at Hughes' words. He found himself wondering about the necessity for the speech, why Hughes thought a pep talk was appropriate.

His skepticism wasn't mirrored on any other face, but Jones was staring blankly at his desk, the only other person not outwardly attentive to their Boss, while Diana's arms were crossed defensively in front of her, her expression stony. Maybe they sensed, as he did, that this was a preliminary to unpleasant news. His instincts didn't betray him. After expounding on the department's successes, Hughes dropped his bombshell.

"Until Agent Burke returns to New York, his duties will be taken over on a temporary basis by Martin Corriveau, a veteran agent on loan from the DC Art Crimes Unit. I am sure you will afford him the same courtesies and work with the same diligence as you do for Agent Burke. Agents Jones and Barrigan - please prepare a briefing to bring him up to speed on our open cases."

Despite the rallying call, Hughes didn't seem pleased about this addition to his ranks. Of course, it was hard for Neal to be sure. The harsh lines of his face conspired to turn every expression into a frown, but Neal might be projecting his own feeling there since, presumably, any colleague of Phil Kramer would not view him favorably.

As Hughes dismissed them, Neal caught Diana's eye with a query in the arch of his eyebrows. She responded with a slight shake of the head and a shrug, indicating she wasn't familiar with the agent in question. It wasn't particularly reassuring. Feeling uncharacteristically pessimistic, Neal settled back in his chair to do some research on Agent Corriveau. There wasn't a lot to be found, but he read between the lines to form the image of an unimaginative man moving up the ranks by obeying the rules and avoiding black marks on his record rather than through outstanding successes. He wasn't far from retirement age and was probably being sent to New York as one of the few people with the necessary seniority who could be spared from his current position.

This assessment proved to be depressingly accurate. Corriveau was tall and square-jawed, imposingly built, every inch the FBI agent, but he lacked creative thinking and concealed this deficiency behind rules and conventions. Since Neal's very presence fell into the category of unconventional, he was completely ignored - which the CI decided was at least one step up from vindictive persecution.

Going to work in the morning quickly became a chore, and every hour spent in the office an exercise in boredom. The contrast to Peter's leadership couldn't be more stark, and in one of many idle moments, Neal wondered if Hughes had selected Corriveau to make that point. However, it was unlikely that Hughes would sabotage his own department like that, and it wasn't as if Peter needed validation from either his team or his superiors. As for their new solve rate - well, they would have to close a case to qualify for a rate, and in nearly a month, that hadn't yet happened.

Corriveau never directly addressed Neal, and Neal never volunteered any information. He didn't actually blame the acting SAIC for this ostracization. He'd read the FBI policies regarding confidential informants and knew how far off the reservation Peter had taken their relationship. The vast majority of CIs were criminals arrested for a crime who sought leniency or were pressured into informing in return for a reduction on their sentence. Since the information they provided was thus obviously self-serving, it was regarded with suspicion - perhaps a starting point for investigation, but with the proviso that corroboration was required.

However, the cardinal rule for dealing with informants was to keep the relationship professional. The training manual stressed that 'distance must be maintained.' CIs weren't supposed to become members of an elite team, invited on double dates or asked to keep the agent's wife company in the agent's absence. Peter had not just bucked the system, he had subverted its very precepts. In exchange, he had both the highest solve rate in the FBI and several reprimands and suspensions on his record, neither of which influenced his decisions. Peter's own guidelines were a lot shorter, but deceptively more complex than that of the Bureau's regulations - do the right thing.

Do the right thing. Four simple, monosyllabic words, yet they required consideration, judgement, and responsibility, not rigid adherence to cold rules. They meant flexibility and justice and allowed Peter to call Neal friend and to hold on to that relationship through the initial derision of his more hide-bound colleagues. The success of their partnership had increased the respect afforded Peter, yet somehow only garnered suspicion and resentment for Neal in the Bureau as a whole. His colleagues in the White Collar Unit had been won over, even if occasionally with reluctance. Having experienced Neal's warmth, kindness and generosity and witnessed his fine courage and brilliant mind, there was a unanimous opinion that their CI was the exception that proved the rule.

CIs came and went, recidivism rates high. They betrayed their handlers, falsified information for profit or revenge, tried to play both sides of the fence to their own advantage, and ended up back in jail, on the run or, most likely, dead, their mutilated bodies left as object lessons on the price of betrayal. But Neal was still there, his anklet the only sign that he was a CI, not a highly paid and respected consultant, a valuable expert on a wide range of frauds and forgeries.

But now there was no consulting, no informing. Jones and Diana kept him in the loop and would have done more to insist on his inclusion except Neal asked them not to. It didn't seem such a bad idea to stay off the radar of DC art crimes, especially when Peter wasn't there to deflect and protect. In the meantime, Neal put in the minimum time necessary to fulfill his terms of release and got enjoyment where he could from the extra hours of free time this gave him.

He spent many convivial evenings with Elizabeth, with and without Mozzie, and once a week, with Diana's approval, he and El would go to a museum outside his radius, bonding over their shared love of art. It was a bright splash of color in his otherwise monochromatic world, and a tantalising taste of the freedom that would eventually be his once again. More importantly, his relaxed schedule gave him the opportunity to surreptitiously research Peter's undercover assignment. Mozzie had come through on the photographs, and Neal hadn't been surprised to learn that both men were elite members of the domestic anti-terrorist unit. However, he couldn't dig deeper into their current cases without potentially setting off red flags. What he could do, under the guise of working cold cases, was pursue the scant clues Peter had left him.

Peter had mentioned making a promise to someone who presumably had criminal intent and was now in a position to receive information about terrorist attacks. All irony aside, the scenario rang no particular bells for Neal, and he presumed this had happened before his partnership with Peter. Working his way through Peter's old case files was surprisingly enjoyable and also instructive. It was also a reminder of just how good Peter was at his job, capable of unorthodox strategies, yet also prone to systematic research and unrelenting persistence. Occasionally, Neal wondered if this increased understanding of the agent and his methods would sufficiently enhance his chances of eluding Peter if they ever resumed their game of cat and mouse. The most likely answer was 'probably not.' Peter had learned a commensurate amount about him, and Neal didn't think there was any way he could reinvent himself within the borders of the US that Peter would be unable to track. It would mean once more going into exile, with Mozzie's leper colony the most likely destination.

The first time he'd been on the run from Peter, he'd believed, in his inexperience, that the advantage lay with him, that there were an infinite number of choices he could make so his pursuer would always be one step behind him. Now he understood that was only true in the short run, that a patient predator only has to wait for one mistake. Either way, it was merely idle speculation. It could never be a game between them again. They were too close for it to be anything but betrayal on both their parts. Neal had no intention of running, but if forced to do so, he was sure it wouldn't be Peter coming after him.

The files yielded a couple of possibilities that fitted Peter's vague description, but nothing so far had pinged Neal's radar. Nearly a month after Peter's departure, Neal's research was interrupted by a new case. Hughes called all the agents into the conference room, making a point of including Neal. Diana nudged him into the seat next to her with an encouraging smile. After the long weeks of boredom, he couldn't help the warm buzz of anticipation that centered in his chest. He glanced around with feigned nonchalance to see if anyone shared his eagerness for some action and noticed a definite uptick of interest that was probably due to Hughes' involvement.

The SAIC was standing at the head of the table talking to a professionally dressed woman Neal didn't recognise. Corriveau was sitting next to them, seizing authority by osmosis where he could. His gaze slid over Neal as if the chair was greased. Neal cared nothing for the man's opinion, but he was tired of the agent treating him as a pariah. He missed Peter more than ever; the absence of his friend's steady competency was tangible, and Neal felt unbalanced, as if something were missing from his side.

Hughes opened the proceedings with an introduction. "This is Lieutenant Mary Sondheim from the NYPD. They have asked for our assistance with an ongoing investigation."

The Lieutenant had been handing out small briefing packets, but took this as her cue. "Thank you, Agent Hughes. Your cooperation is much appreciated. Full reports are available in the papers I've distributed, but let me summarize the situation. A few months ago, we were called to the scene of a robbery in Scarsdale. The home owners, a newly retired couple, were sitting down for dinner when at least four masked intruders burst into their home. They were tied up and beaten to reveal the location of cash and valuables. The intruders escaped with several hundred thousand dollars worth of jewelry, cash and artwork. To be honest, it seemed relatively amateurish, a break-in of opportunity rather than forethought. The couple could only tell us that the perpetrators sounded young, white and well-educated. We found nothing at the scene that yielded any usual line of inquiry. We kept our eyes on the usual fences and pawn shops, but nothing seemed to surface.

"Approximately a month later, there was another break-in. This time a family with middle-school-aged children, but other than that it was almost identical. They picked a time when the family was home and the alarm wasn't on. This time, the father suffered several broken bones and a concussion severe enough to leave him in a coma for a week."

Neal was listening intently, but also reading through the packet - multi-tasking with typical adroitness to fill in the gaps. His first reaction was that it was an inside job, and Sondheim clearly had the same idea, but they'd been unable to find any point of commonality between those or the two subsequent crimes. There were different security companies, cleaners, sports clubs, and the kids went to different schools. The Lieutenant explained how the violence of the attacks had escalated, culminating in murder in the most recent invasion three days ago.

"We were making some progress tracking the movements of a variety of vehicles, but then we got a far more promising lead. It appears that murder was crossing the line for someone in the inner circle of this gang. We got a phone call, and the anonymous informant gave us a name and some hints that, with the additional heat that homicide charges would bring, the culprits were now trying to get rid of incriminating evidence. Investigation and surveillance seem to confirm this story. It appears that our suspect plans to meet with a fence by the soubriquet of "the Matchmaker", otherwise known as Bobby Anderson."

Neal recognised the pseudonym "Matchmaker" as a professional Mozzie had worked with in the past, but they'd never tried to uncover his identity, partly out of professional courtesy, but mostly because he had the reputation of ruthlessly protecting his privacy. The picture in the packet was grainy, a photo snapped by a close-circuit camera at a fortuitous moment. His face was unremarkable, and nothing about him would merit a second glance, yet despite the poor quality of the picture, it had captured an unconscious authority that bordered on arrogance.

"It sounds like everything's all but wrapped up," Jones observed. "Get ears on the meet and wait for the exchange, and you'll have both a high-end fence and your burglary gang." It was phrased as a statement but contained elements of a question, since the Lieutenant's very presence in the White Collar office refuted the assumption that the case was nearly closed as did the corner of her mouth which pulled down into a bitter snarl.

"In an ideal world that would be the case," she agreed. "However, with just the word of an anonymous informant and absolutely no concrete evidence as yet, we've been unable to get a wiretap or a warrant for anything more invasive that visual surveillance. No judge wants to go near this, since our main suspect is the 21-year-old son of one of the most prominent lawyers in the city. The department is leery of a lawsuit on this one, so we need the case to be ironclad. That's where your team comes in. Captain Shattuck suggested you could provide some unique help."

"You're looking for someone to go undercover as the Matchmaker." Neal spoke with assurance, knowing who that individual would be.

"Not just anybody. We could provide a good undercover officer, but we need someone who can definitively identify the stolen artwork and sound authentic doing so." The Lieutenant was staring at him as if wondering how he'd taste with ketchup.

A glance up the table however, showed him Corriveau looking as if he'd stepped in something unpleasant and was wondering how to get rid of it as precipitously as possible without getting his hands dirty. More out of an unworthy impulse to rub the man's face in it than any altruistic desire, Neal graced Sondheim with his most dazzling smile. "I would be delighted to assist the NYPD."

That speech earned him the immediate gratification of seeing Corriveau look as if he'd ingested the deposit from his shoe which carried him through the inevitable lecture from Mozzie that evening. The accusation that he had the self-preservation instincts of a suicidal mayfly might have stung, but Mozzie had some useful suggestions as to how to mimic the Matchmaker's voice and physicality.

Any satisfaction Neal still felt after Mozzie's onslaught quickly withered in apprehension when he realised Corriveau would be in charge of the operation at the White Collar end. Going on a mission without Peter watching his back felt foreign and wrong after so many years of working together.

He waggled his jaw to settle the discomfort of the earwig deep in his ear and adjusted the watch that would proclaim his location and broadcast any nearby conversations. Diana gave him a thumbs up from where she was checking the equipment, and he nodded back, confident that there was nobody here who would pick up on his nerves. He could do this. The Matchmaker had been intercepted and was now in custody, and Neal was in possession of his belongings, specifically his phone and computer. There was no cash, so clearly the deal was to be electronic. It was by no means a full-proof plan. It was possible that some sort of code word exchange had been set up, and the Matchmaker wasn't talking. However, Mozzie had indicated that there had been no such precautions in the past; the man simply did his homework before entering any transaction.

Neal was fairly confident of his ability to talk his way around glitches that might surface, at least to gain the three minutes necessary for the FBI and NYPD to move in, but despite the intellectual certainty that the mission was safe, the feelings of vulnerability persisted. He was going into battle without his shield, and the weight of Peter's absence caught in his lungs like poisonous smoke.

He told himself it was ridiculous; he'd undertaken many operations without backup and others with the totally unreliable support of such con-artists as Alex and Keller. But those times were in the past. He'd become accustomed to Peter's bedrock presence, to knowing he'd come out of the operation alive because Peter didn't leave a man behind.

It was too late to back out now; he was committed to following through with the role. Anderson had been driving a van with piles of empty packaging in the back, nothing incriminating but clearly a vehicle intended for driving away purloined art. Neal climbed into the driver's seat and slid the key into the ignition, catching a concerned look on Diana's face as he closed the door.

He only had a few blocks to drive to arrive at the warehouse district where the rendezvous was taking place. NYPD had followed Brad Stevens there and confirmed his presence. It reminded Neal of the location where he'd been apprehended by Curtis Hagen's men, allowing Peter to disregard the lack of a warrant and follow him inside. Once again, he felt a deep pang of regret at Peter's absence, but pushed it aside with determination. He had to get into character, sink his mind into the construct of Bobby Anderson formed by the pictures he'd seen and Mozzie's first-hand accounts. He usually enjoyed this part of a con or a case, the possibility of discovery the tantalizing spice of danger heating up an otherwise bland investigation. He tried to capture that adrenaline rush that typically infused his performances with veracity, but the most he could gain was a feeling of vertiginous freefall, the promise of falling without the reassurance of a reliable hand to catch him.

Stubbornness forced him onwards - or maybe it was professional pride, an unwillingness to expose weakness in front of a judgemental audience. As he turned into the complex, his sharp eyes noticed several people he took to be NYPD personnel suspiciously loitering in a variety of guises. It was a timely reminder that he wasn't alone. For a few seconds, his eyes tracked an improbably dressed hobo in the rearview mirror before refocusing on finding his destination in the warren of buildings.

With the exception of the number painted in faded and chipped color, Warehouse 42 was indistinguishable from its surrounding neighbors. Neal tapped his horn once as an announcement of his arrival, and in response, the corrugated metal door rattled violently and started to retract upwards, revealing a decidedly uninviting and one-way maw.

"I'm going in," he informed his watch, the first words he'd spoken since entering the vehicle. Suiting the action to the word, he obeyed the unspoken summons, taking his foot off the brake and allowing the van to inch into the dark space. The initial contact was the most dangerous time of the operation, ignorance of previous contact providing him with a miscellany of tripping points before he could establish himself in the role.

As he stepped down from the van, the door rattled down to a resounding close, cutting off his immediate avenue of escape and establishing a formidable barrier for would-be rescuers. Suddenly his mind was clear, survival mode wiping clean all reservations and quibbles. These college kids were dilettantes in the criminal world. At their age, he'd not only got an impressive international resume, but he'd also got Peter Burke on his trail.

He glanced around curiously, eyes automatically scanning for alternative exits and escape routes. He presumed there was a door in the back, if the building met fire safety codes, but he couldn't confirm that since his view was blocked by stacks of crates. There were no sources of natural light, no windows or skylights, but the few light bulbs that straggled down from the ceiling harshly illuminated the five faces that regarded him expectantly and with varying degrees of bravura. They were all gratuitously displaying an arsenal of weaponry, semi-automatics slung over shoulders and pistols stuck in belts, but only two managed to pull off the tough gangster look convincingly. The others looked like college students out of their depths, not sure if Neal represented a new threat to their buoyancy or salvation, but clearly wanting the whole affair to be over.

Neal might not like guns, but he was too familiar to be intimidated by them, carrying himself with total confidence despite his own lack of armament. He oriented himself towards the young man he presumed to be Stevens, the leader of the gang if rank were judged by the quantity of lethal weaponry adorning each person. Looking at the cold smirk on his face, the sense of entitlement, privilege and total unconcern for others, Neal was sure he was the killer of the group.

"You the Matchmaker?"

'You expecting anyone else?" Neal asked in much the same tone, keeping his voice deeper and hoarser than his usual melodious baritone, just as Mozzie had coached him, in case the real fence had spoken to any of them on the phone.

Stevens nodded at one of his more nervous team members. "Go and keep watch outside."

Neal ignored the byplay but trusted that it had been caught by his watch. It was an elementary precaution, but one he'd hoped they wouldn't take, since it forced the FBI to keep their distance. He'd been hoping his backup could sneak up and arrest them in the act, but that now seemed unlikely. He'd need to play out the charade until the joint task force could safely move into position.

"Okay let's see what you've got, and you'd better not be wasting my time."

"Oh, I think you'll be satisfied with what we've got." Stevens handed Neal an ornate jewelry box. "Take a look at that. Are you even armed?" he added, sensing a weakness to exploit like a shark sensing injured prey.

"I don't have to be," Neal replied shortly. "If anything happens to me, you might as well throw this all in the trash. No fence will as much as answer your calls. You can put away the weaponry. It doesn't impress me."

"I like the options they give me, so I think I'll keep them handy."

Neal didn't acknowledge the threat with as much as a glance, partly because to do so would only encourage, but mostly because he was pondering a dilemma of his own. The diamond necklace he'd been handed was a fake, although it was a good one. If Stevens was genuinely unaware of the fact, he might believe Neal was attempting to con him, and he didn't seem like a man who would demonstrate patience with such trickery. However, if, and he was fairly sure this was the case, it was a test, then failing it was an option that would probably be met with a bullet between the eyes, despite his attempt to discourage the notion.

Decision made, he threw the necklace down in disgust. "Either you're trying to pull a fast one or your men don't know a diamond from a lump of coal. I'm done."

There was a squeal of alarm in his ear. " _What are you playing at, Caffrey. Stop messing about."_

Stevens, however, was smiling as proudly as if he'd multiplied bread and fishes. "See, I told you that was the best way to check if he was the real deal."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Neal had to restrain the impulse to roll his eyes. "I have more important and more lucrative things to do than perform tricks for you."

As he was handed the genuine stolen articles, he found himself angry at the thought of these items torn so violently from peaceful families. He wondered if that made him a hypocrite or a Stockholm syndrome survivor. His own planning had always been meticulous, scrupulously avoiding even the possibility of violence and his targets were most often corporations, museums or even governments, keeping his crimes as victimless as possible. But one thing he'd learnt from the FBI was that consequences were neither predictable nor immediately apparent.

He found himself drawing other uncomfortable parallels. Although there had been years in his youth when he'd stolen out of necessity - hunger and desperation the motivating factors - the necessities of life had been his to command for many years. Cons had been performed and beautiful items acquired for the thrill of the action and love of the game. These young men were not hurting for money, and he had the strong feeling that their crimes were committed more for the adrenaline rush than the value of items acquired.

He stifled his rising anger, masking it behind approving nods as he made quick notes to catalog the value of the items he was shown. Most of the early items he was handed for appraisal were not on the list he had memorized from the NYPD, indicating that either the gang had been operating longer than the police had suspected or that the inventory was incomplete for another reason - maybe they were stealing from their own parents. Whatever the cause of the discrepancy, it kept him uncertain enough about matching the identity of this gang to that the police were searching for that, knowing the stakes involved, he delayed uttering the verification code phrase.

Corriveau's voice was hammering in his ear, a grating distraction demanding resolution to the case. If it been Peter listening in, Neal could have effortlessly clued him in to the exact situation with a few seemingly innocuous words. However, subtlety wasn't in Corriveau's vocabulary, and he'd have required a smack between the eyes with a two by four and a giant pointing foam finger before he'd recognize a clue. Moreover, Neal was human enough to resent the dismissive treatment he'd received at the hands of the Art Crimes agent, and he was enjoying rubbing the man's nose in the value placed on Neal's expertise. He was in no hurry to respond even though it was becoming increasingly evident that this was the crew they were looking for.

He might have plucked the earpiece out to cut off the strident demands, but it would generate extreme suspicion if he started fishing mechanical devices out of his ear. Instead, he grudgingly uttered the code phrase, "There are some quality pieces you have here." He ignored the ensuing exclamations of satisfaction transmitted down the wire, concentrating on completing his assignment and hoping that Corriveau wouldn't blow his end of the operation in his excitement at the prospect of finally getting a successful notch in his belt.

Neal kept the tension out of his body language, but as his interaction with gang grew more protracted, he could see the stress mirrored in the more nervous of the criminals. At the bottom of the pecking order, one miserable individual had been assigned the task of packing the crates and loading them into Neal's van. Shaking hands were apparently not conducive to a fragile job well done. In his peripheral vision, Neal caught sight of a crate slipping and instinctively reached out a hand to steady it, but gravity had already assumed control, slamming his hand against the wall of the van and pinning it by his watch.

There was a startled exclamation followed by a stream of invective in his ear, but he was oblivious, the shock of abrupt pain deafening him to everything but the pounding of his heartbeat, the thundering of blood trapped in his pulse point. Willing hands quickly lifted the box away, relieving the pressure, the worst of the pain quickly dying to a shimmering throb traveling up his arm, but he exaggerated his distress. The sight of the shattered glass in the face of his watch redirected his attention to the furore emanating through his earpiece.

 _"Damn it, Caffrey, what the hell is going on? Don't even think about trying something cute with me."_

He couldn't catch the words, but caught the tone of Diana protesting, but whatever she said, she was overruled.

 _"Bullshit. We've got a known criminal with millions of stolen goods, and now we've lost contact. We're moving in."_ If that wasn't the bitter icing on the piece of over-baked cake. Neal would be the only unarmed man stuck between gun-toting gangsters and trigger-happy lawmen who would all single him out as their primary target. In the confined space of the warehouse, he would be a sitting duck with a helpful neon target exuding magnetic properties. In short, he needed a convincing and speedy exit plan that would arouse little suspicion. Feigning considerable injury, he lashed out at the hapless man who'd caused the accident. In an ironic twist, the very occurrence that had necessitated the quick exit had provided him with the perfect excuse to implement it.

"You idiot, you've broken my wrist. I can't drive my van like this, it's a stick shift. Now I'm going to have to go to the hospital and have it set. You guys finish loading the van and someone drive me to the hospital." It might be dangerous to try to duck out by himself, but suspicions would be allayed if he invited a potential guard to accompany him. He could easily elude one man in the presence of the FBI.

Every muscle was straining in an effort to pick up the first signs of the FBI's approach - he just knew that Corriveau would prefer the dramatic entrance of sirens blazing to subtlety - but knew the tension in his body language would be interpreted as pain from the fracture.

Stevens was standing irresolute, clearly thrown by the unexpected interruption of the negotiations. "Come on," Neal insisted irritably. He was cradling his left wrist protectively, and a trickle of blood worked its way through shielding fingers to punctuate his need for medical attention. "Who's going to drive me?" As if expecting compliance, but in actuality hoping for a head start, he strode towards the exit. Three feet from the door, his hopes of a clean escape were thwarted. The door burst open and the preassigned sentry burst in, the strident wail of sirens wafting in his wake.

"Cops, hundreds of them. They're everywhere!"

Neal debated the possibility of barging past the man and out through the door, but the unmistakable sound of safety catches being removed and guns being cocked convinced him that he'd be riddled with bullets before he'd taken two steps. He spun around to find the confirmation he hoped to avoid - three muzzles, seemingly the size of canons leveled directly at him. He hated guns.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Neal really really hated guns. What he hated most was the fact that they always seemed to be unerringly pointed in his direction. He'd been shot before - been there done that, got the t-shirt and used it to mop up the blood. It wasn't a sensation that improved with repeated exposure. This was usually the moment when Peter strode into the fray, coat tails flapping with the force of his entrance, complete confidence in his demeanor, as if the righteousness of his cause rendered him bulletproof. Neal had learnt to depend on that backup, but now he had reason to believe that the first person through the door was as likely to shoot at him as rescue him.

He ruthlessly quashed the fear that roared through him, allowing it only to kick start his brain into top gear while his finely honed survival instincts took the threat and used it to fuel a plan. Instead of raising his hands in surrender, he strode towards the waiting guns, until his forward progress was halted by the barrel of a gun backed by a suspicious look.

"What are you doing?" Stevens demanded.

Neal transferred his annoyance at Corriveau onto the young man standing in front him. Annoyance was clearly too mild a word to describe Stevens' feelings. Unused to being thwarted, the gangster was vibrating with rage.

"How the hell did they find us?"

"I don't know." Neal pushed the gun aside. "However if you stay here, I'm sure you can ask them, while they handcuff you with smug superiority."

"We could shoot our way out." Stevens brandished his gun aggressively.

"Are you kidding?" Neal shot him his best incredulous glare. "Did you hear what he said? There are hundreds of them and only five of you. You fire a shot and you're handing them an invitation to respond with lethal force. It's worst than poking a rabid hornet's nest."

"My dad can get us out of this."

"Look around you." Neal made an expansive gesture towards the stolen goods. " This is what we in the trade refer to as being caught red-handed. I don't care if your father is the governor of the state. You'll be going down for this, and I'll be going down with you. We've got to get moving, so anyone who doesn't want to spend the next thirty years in jail, come with me."

He knew there was a good chance that Stevens would shoot him out of pure frustration; he provided an easy target for the young man's murderous impulses, and his back burned in anticipation of hot lead. However, within seconds, the rest of the gang, wide-eyed in panic, were at his heels, unintentionally shielding him.

Neal opened the back door cautiously, but nothing more lethal than a chilly gust of wind struck him. A quick glance left and right provided no useful information. Squat warehouses delineated a basic grid system, leaving only parallel and perpendicular lines as options for travel. There were no clues as to a preferential route. Moreover, he was unsure if his best strategy was to work his way back to the FBI or to run as fast as he could away from them. His instincts were screaming at him to avoid anyone with a gun, and he hadn't survived this long in an eventful career by ignoring such sage advice.

He glanced behind him at the gang clustered like anxious chicks at the feet of their mother. "Run!" he said succinctly. Suiting action to the word, he led by example, sprinting left, then taking the first right so he was moving in the opposite direction to the advancing forces of the law.

Neal loved to run. He hated jogging, trotting or any other dilatory form of movement. He reveled in the thrill of the all-out chase, feet pounding, calves burning, lungs straining until he hit his rhythm. Endorphins would kick in and he would fly, only aware of the wind in his face and the sweet rush of adrenaline through his veins. Unencumbered by heavy and awkward armaments, he soon outpaced his flock. He jinked around a couple of warehouses, altering his ultimate trajectory in an effort to ensure they stayed lost.

His steps only faltered when the earpiece crackled to life, and Diana's slightly breathless voice came over the line. "Caffrey, if you can hear me, make for the west side of the compound. I'll try to pick you up there, but for God's sake, be careful. Corriveau is out for blood. Peter will bust me down to janitorial staff if I let anything happen you."

Diana had proven herself a good friend many times, and he trusted her. His only hesitation lay in consideration of the damage this could do to her career. However, a burst of gunfire from behind him spun the magic eight ball from 'maybe' to 'hell, yes'. The sporadic gunfire that continued behind him should have spurred him to greater speed, but instead he slowed down, needing to take in his surroundings and think of a better plan than trying to outrun a bullet. Realising that he was running along the length of the final warehouse, he came to an abrupt halt, skidding slightly on the gravel under his feet. He flattened himself against the wall, his breath pluming ephemeral gouts in the frosty air as he took in his surroundings.

The threat of imminent death had cleared the area of anyone not already evicted by the FBI, so there was no one in sight. Ahead, his passage was blocked by a ten-foot wooden fence topped with barbed wire. It would be relatively easy to scale, but it blocked his view of what lay on the other side, and the chances were the FBI had the compound surrounded. Again, it wasn't an insurmountable challenge to evade them, but to do so would destroy any credibility he had as a victim in the scenario. Leaving the area would be tantamount to an admission of guilt.

Another option, far more tempting, was to go to ground. There was a plethora of convenient buildings in which to hide, hopefully stuffed with a miscellany of concealing articles. However, that could lead to the world's crappiest game of Marco Polo with Diana. Finding his temporary handler would be the ideal outcome. It might help him avoid such inconveniences as being shot or arrested. He hoped she'd arrive soon, because his own movements were becoming increasingly circumscribed.

As he glanced back again, the unmistakable figure of a lawman, gun in hand, appeared at the very far end of his row of warehouses. Unless the officer had exceptionally sharp eyesight, Neal didn't think he'd be visible, plastered as he was against the building. Knowing that nothing caught the eye as much as movement, Neal edged along the wall cautiously. He reached the end, as westerly as he could go, and peered round the corner. His withdrawal was more precipitous as he spotted the NYPD officer against the fence two blocks away, clearly placed to prevent an exodus in that direction.

Neal briefly contemplated surrendering himself into the custody of the officer, but a lifetime of evasion and wariness of the law, reinforced by Diana's warning gave him a strong disinclination to voluntarily follow such an action. His options were getting increasingly limited. The claustrophobia of a closing trap spiked his adrenaline, and his vision blurred momentarily, short breaths rattling in his throat. He rapidly assessed the adjacent buildings for possible escape routes. There was a window high on the wall opposite him, but climbing would almost certainly attract attention. His best option was to slowly work his way back along the warehouse, even if that unfortunately meant nearer to the first approaching cop, and slip into the next passageway.

He ignored the temptation that urged him to just run. Instead he timed his movements, sidling along each time the cop paused at a crossroads to check both side streets, remaining motionless, willing invisibility at other times, nervous energy thrumming under his skin. It helped that the man had clearly accepted the area in front of him as empty of personnel so wasn't scrutinizing it carefully. It was a twisted one-sided game of red light, green light with a decidedly more severe penalty for being discovered than being 'out'. His direction was counter-intuitive and every nerve was so taut, he could hear them twanging out the tune to Mission Impossible when he moved.

Neal was approximately three yards from the corner, when the officer, less than four warehouses down, inevitably spotted him. He tensed, peering forward, but the only thing Neal noticed was the gun rising to bear on him. His heart flip-flopped before leaping into his throat, and he reacted instinctively, racing forward, the safety of shelter beckoning irresistibly.

"NYPD, stop or…" The shout reached his ears, but it was amazing how the word 'stop' with that particular prefix merely spurred him to greater efforts. Neal somehow defied the physics of forward momentum as he slid around the corner, chased by the echo of two shots fired. He didn't pause to inquire if they were fired as a warning or with lethal intent, but sprinted on, hoping the maze of buildings would provide the cover he needed for long enough. Mixed within the fear, anger crawled inside his stomach to make a nest there. He'd been asked to participate in this operation, his cooperation vital to its success, and now they were firing at him. This festering sense of ill-usage had to be stifled for now as survival took precedence.

He hoped to double back, to work his way west again to rendezvous with Diana, but with at least one officer that he knew giving chase there was no time for such niceties as checking around corners, and, perhaps inevitably, his luck ran out. As he rounded another corner, he almost impaled himself on the gun of an approaching cop.

"FBI, FBI!" He had his hands up and was yelling his identification before conscious thought had crossed his mind. Later, he would commend the officer, at least in the privacy of his mind, for not pulling the trigger by pure reflex. At the time the issue still seemed in doubt, the cop still seemed poised to shoot, trigger finger taut and from what Neal could see of his face, angry and intent. Clarification seemed necessary. "I'm an FBI operative working undercover at the request of the NYPD. And I'm not armed," he added hastily.

That piece of information seemed to tip the issue in his favor. "Lace your fingers behind your head. Get down on your knees and cross your feet at the ankles."

Neal assumed the position gracefully, but couldn't help commenting, "Your department sure has a funny way of showing its appreciation."

Another officer, probably his erstwhile pursuer joined the scene, slightly out of breath. "One of our men is down, so gratitude isn't the first thing on our minds."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Neal didn't need to fake that sincerity. "But please check with your Lieutenant Sondheim or my SAIC Reese Hughes. I'm working with you."

His words made about as much impact as spitballs spattering against their body armor. His original captor kept his gun trained on Neal while the newcomer cuffed him. Neal had no intention of resisting or doing anything but submitting with a certain verbal ill-grace, but he'd forgotten about his earlier accident. As the second cuff closed tightly around his left wrist, his cry of pain and an involuntary jerk away from the tormenting hands met with instant retribution. A hob-nailed boot was planted between his shoulder blades and gave a solid push. It was nothing as crude as a kick, but its effects were just as injurious. With his hands restrained behind his back and only a split second to react, Neal could do no more than twist slightly so his right shoulder hit the ground first. However, he was unable to prevent a secondary impact, the side of his face bouncing on the pavement.

The violent introduction of cheekbone to concrete left Neal momentarily stunned. He never completely lost consciousness and was vaguely aware of voices arguing above him, but the words were lost in a haze of pain. Time assumed the nebulous quality of a dream, so it could have been half a minute or an hour before he was hoisted onto his feet to weave uncertainly with the timorous valor of a toddler taking his first steps. Rough hands pushed and pulled, finally guiding him into the back seat of a car that enough time had elapsed to be brought close for the purpose of transporting him to the police station.

He thought he caught a glimpse of Diana talking frantically on the phone as they exited the warehouse complex, but his vision was gyroscopically unstable, blurring in and out and adding interesting splashes of color. Circling tweety birds it was not. The motion of the car exacerbated the roil of nausea in his stomach, so in the interests of preserving the contents of his guts in their natural habitat rather than using them to redecorate the interior of the car, he closed his eyes.

He tried to use the journey to recuperate, to painstakingly gather up and knit the faculties scattered and frayed by the blow to the face, and work out how much trouble he was in. He was able to walk into the police station under his own steam, and he was more puzzled than alarmed when they bypassed booking and lead him directly to an interrogation room, handcuffing him to a table. They left him without an explanation, but also without additional derogatory comments.

He appreciated the temporary isolation. There were no one-way mirrors so beloved of TV shows, but a blinking red light in the corner suggested a surveillance camera. Disregarding the implication he might be observed, he pulled out a paper clip that had been overlooked in a perfunctory frisking, and unlocked the handcuffs. He had no intention of attempting escape, but he wanted to make the statement that he was staying voluntarily.

Removing the cracked watch, he massaged his sore wrist carefully, thinking that the feigned diagnosis of a broken bone might not be as fictitious as he originally thought. He crossed his arms carefully across his chest, put his feet on the table and tilted back slightly in the chair. It only needed a hat, sadly lost in the chase, tipped over his eyes to complete the picture of indolent confidence. He had no idea how long he'd be forced to wait, but he would assert control where he could.

He hadn't been offered a phone call, but the person he wanted to ring wasn't available anyway. He could imagine Peter marching in and hauling him out, demonstrating his multitasking skills by simultaneously dissecting the failures of procedure and flaws of the operation, leaving the entire police station feeling like they'd been run over by the world's most sarcastic truck.

If called upon, Mozzie would perform a similar slicing and dicing from a legal point of view, but the situation had to be truly dire for the little man to willingly set foot in a police station - that moment might be when the shackles were fastened and the charges read. For now, Neal could wait.

It wasn't as prolonged a wait as he'd expected. Initially, he kept his eyes shut as someone, no two people, entered the room. His head was pounding in fiery pulses and acknowledging his putative interrogators would only increase his heartbeat thus exacerbating his pain. Only after they'd seated themselves on the opposite side of the table did he deign to remove his feet, sit up and face them. He ignored Corriveau and the smugly victorious smile on his face and focused on Sondheim.

She had the decency to look worried and a trifle guilty as she took in the red, raw bruise on his face. The hot swelling had spread from the side of his jaw to his right eye, closing it almost entirely, but he stared calmly at the lieutenant through his functioning eye.

"Mr. Caffrey, do you need medical attention?" Her words were formal, but there was genuine concern behind them.

Corriveau clearly didn't share this humanitarianism. "There are consequences to resisting arrest," he declared portentously.

Neal continued to address Sondheim alone. "If your men reported that," he stated steadily, "it was an attempt to forestall my charges of police brutality."

There was a scoffing sound of derision from the FBI agent, but Sondheim nodded seriously. "If you have a complaint about my men's actions, I want to hear it."

All of a sudden, Neal remembered the restraint of the arresting officer and the true grief of the other, and he was reluctant to make a formal complaint. "Off the record for now, I flinched when the handcuffs were placed on what is possibly my broken wrist and for that, my face was slammed down on the road."

The lieutenant looked at the puffy flesh on his lower arm still marred with streaks of blood from the broken glass, and stood up. "This interview is officially suspended until Mr. Caffrey has received the medical care he needs."

She ushered the spluttering FBI agent out of the room. Neal decided he liked the brusque officer and was even more impressed when an EMT entered within a minute. She bound up his wrist, stating her professional opinion that it was only bruised, but advising an x-ray at his earliest convenience since there were so many small bones in the area. She also pronounced his pupils equal and reactive, but, given his symptoms, diagnosed a minor concussion. She found a soft ice bag to help reduce the swelling and some analgesics for the pain.

The painkillers had started to kick in, and he was feeling more alert when his two former interlocutors returned. The atmosphere was oppressive, even grim.

Neal immediately addressed Sondheim. "Lieutenant, I haven't been read my rights or had any charges brought against me. I've done nothing wrong and I'd really like to understand why I'm here."

Sondheim placed a thin file on the desk, then interlaced her fingers on top of it. "Mr. Caffrey, from what I understand your legal status is unique and fairly precarious. You are not technically a parolee, but have been released from prison under very specific conditions and can be returned there at the discretion of the FBI. In fact, that has happened twice in the last couple of years. After your conduct in this case, Special Agent Corriveau is recommending that your status be reassessed. I would like more information before I sign off on my report."

As if a cork had popped off a long-fermenting bottle, Neal was suddenly blindingly angry. "You came to me." His index finger illustrated the pronouns. "I did what you asked at considerable personal risk, and as far as I know, with success. We did catch the gang, right?"

She threw Corriveau an indecipherable glance. "Yes, one member of the gang died in an exchange of gunfire and the rest were captured. The evidence will almost certainly convict them. I am personally very grateful for the services you rendered. However, there are some questions that need to be answered."

"I have cooperated fully and successfully with your department. If you have an issue with any of the decisions I made in pursuit of that conclusion, then please ask me and I'll be happy to explain."

He tempered his anger into a more rational control, sensing a modicum of sympathy from Sondheim even if she wasn't choosing sides. He wasn't too familiar with the inter-departmental politics of the situation, but the fact that Corriveau had so far stayed silent, suggested that she held the authority, at least in this location, and for now, it was her he needed to convince. Whatever the motivation behind Corriveau's attack, Neal wasn't too worried. For once, he was genuinely and completely innocent of any misconduct. As such, it seemed unnecessary to employ his most open and candid expression. He reserved that for his truly guilty moments. Right now, he was sore and truly disgusted with the situation and had no qualms in letting his frustration show.

He leaned forward, his body a lithe slump of tightly leashed energy. He had been holding the ice-pack gently against his face, but now he placed it on the table. Road-rash purple might not be the best color on him, but he wasn't averse to allowing his injury to inspire a little guilt and generate concomitant sympathy. Sondheim offered him a slightly rueful smile, perhaps acknowledging his strategy.

"Since the majority of the questions seem to come from my colleague, (Neal thought he heard a slightly contemptuous stress to the last word, but maybe he was just projecting) I'll hand over this part of the interview to him."

Neal reluctantly transferred his focus to the DC Arts Crime agent. Corriveau tried to maintain a gracious deference to the NYPD officer while scowling sternly at Neal and merely succeeded in looking constipated. "Caffrey, you claim your actions were cooperative, but on the contrary, you ignored the orders of your superior officer and in doing so endangered the lives of the officers and agents involved in the operation. It is clear to me that you used the trust offered you to turn the situation to your own advantage and attempt to abscond with the stolen goods."

If Neal's jaw hadn't been inflexible due to the swelling, it would have dropped to his chest in incredulity at the absurd pronouncement. Wisdom dictated that he not antagonize the man who was technically his boss, but his head was pounding and irritation scratched fitfully through his veins. Placating a mindless dictator with delusions of competency was at the bottom of his to-do list. He had just enough restraint not to call him out for the scum-sucking bottom feeder he was.

"I've done nothing wrong," he reiterated tightly. "If you want to railroad me back to jail because of some vindictive agenda of your own, at least be honest about it."

Corriveau flushed an unbecoming puce. "Don't make this personal, Caffrey. This is about the team. You're a wild card. By not following procedure or orders, you endangered the lives of our personnel and that is unacceptable."

It was a blatant ploy to alienate Neal from the police captain. For the first time, Neal realized that this was more than passing harassment, a nuisance born of petty jealousy. His insides felt suddenly awash in an inescapable flood of icy dismay. Corriveau was serious about pursuing these allegations. Peter had mentioned ensuring that Neal wouldn't get sent back to jail in his absence, but Neal was fairly sure that guarantee didn't protect him against serious charges. He'd been on extremely thin ice with the powers that be since his return from his unauthorized island jaunt, and the hot air billowing from the agent's accusations would very likely melt his remaining support, plunging him into the freezing water below to drown.

The thought of imprisonment, of losing his freedom, his new-found family and friends, his meaningful activity terrified him, and a lump of something high-density lodged itself in his throat. However, he had no intention of displaying his trepidation or showing weakness, and he was confident that neither of the people in the room knew him well enough to penetrate the confident mask he projected.

"I did my job; so if you have any specific complaints rather than vague accusations, please state them and give me the opportunity to respond."

Corriveau leaned forward aggressively. "Let's start with the fact that you consistently ignored my instructions."

"Have you ever been undercover?" It was a rhetorical question, subtly laced with contempt for a paper pusher, and the Art Crimes agent blustered an unconvincing response about irrelevancies.

Neal waited patiently for him to finish, then continued. "You have no experience with being on the ground and have no concept of the pressures involved. I was unarmed in the middle of a group of heavily armed men who would have no compunction in killing me if my cover was exposed. I had to concentrate on maintaining that role. An undercover operative has to have some autonomy to react as necessary to the conditions and challenges he faces that cannot be understood or even imagined by those not present. Your constant whittering in my ear was a distraction that endangered me and the success of the mission."

"That's very true," contributed Sondheim. "You can't micromanage undercover work."

Neal tried not to look too smug at the corroboration, settling for an appearance of professional solidarity instead. "No disrespect was intended by ignoring your...suggestions, but I did what I had to to preserve the integrity of the operation."

Sondheim nodded approvingly at his response, and he mentally chalked up a point for his side of the scoreboard.

As if sensing that silent action, Corriveau bit back angrily, "That doesn't give you the right to destroy your tracker."

Neal's look of incredulity was getting too much of a work out, so he he tried to choose between patronizing and earnest for a refreshing alternative. He settled with great self-restraint on apologetic. "I'm sorry about that, but it was an unavoidable accident." He lifted his bandaged arm in illustration. "One which cost me."

The Art Crimes agent snorted his disbelief. "You expect us to believe that it's a coincidence that minutes after we remove your ankle tracker, the one object that could inform us of your whereabouts and actions just happened to be disabled by accident."

Neal shrugged. "That's what happened. Technology fails for a wide variety of reasons. If I'd wanted to destroy it, I'd have removed it from my wrist before stomping on it. I certainly wouldn't have found an obscure way of doing it which damaged me as much as the device. That's assuming I had a reason to disable the tracker. I didn't. It's my lifeline, the only way to alert you that I needed backup."

"It wouldn't be the first time or even the second, would it?" Corriveau said snidely, his smirk indicating his belief that he had evened the scoreboard.

Neal had no intention of confessing that the agent's count came nowhere close to the number of times he'd bypassed the anklet to conduct unauthorized business of his own. Despite the statement's inaccuracies, it was a palpable hit, targeting Neal's greatest vulnerability in the eyes of the law - his record. In his experience, cops tended to be short-sighted, rarely able to focus beyond an individual's rap sheet, judging all actions through the lens of past crimes.

Peter was the exception to that. He had the ability, or maybe the desire, to look deeper and see beyond the externals, the masks and the affectations, to see the man within, not just the criminal. However, Sondheim wasn't Peter, and Neal could already see the frown starting to furrow her brow. His response was addressed to her as he adopted a chastened look. "The situation was complicated, but both times, I believed my life to be threatened and escape was the only option I had. The FBI accepted my reasons, which is why I'm still working for them. The watch was broken by accident, I have no reason to run."

"Several millions dollars in valuables aren't reasons enough?"

"I don't steal family treasures, and even if I wanted to and was stupid enough to steal something the police had an inventory of, how would I accomplish that? Everything was packed into the van. Do you think I was intending to drive it past the combined forces of the FBI and NYPD while crossing my fingers in the hope that they were all momentarily stricken with amnesia or blindness?"

Corriveau had no intention of letting go such a promising indictment. "Whatever your intentions were towards the stolen goods, you can't deny that you ran. You didn't stay to assist your colleagues, you ran with the thieves."

"Of course I ran," Neal struggled to sound contemptuous rather than desperate. "I had no weapon and was caught between two groups armed for bear. I'd fare about as well as a beer can in a frat party if I stayed. You came storming in, sirens blaring, lights flashing with all the subtlety of a sumo wrestler. Thanks for that, by the way. You might as well have had fog horns announcing that they had an informant in their midst. About one second after they heard your approach - which was about two minutes before you would actually arrive to provide back up - every gun in the place was pointed at me. You bet I ran. Running was the only thing that convinced them that I wasn't working with you. It kept me alive long enough for help to actually arrive."

Sondheim re-entered the conversation. "Mr. Caffrey, you are correct that moving in the way we did was badly handled, and I'll accept your reasons for initially running. However, can you explain why you continued to evade my people? Even after we had apprehended the gang and you were by yourself, you continued to run."

"I had no way of knowing what was happening or which of your men had itchy trigger fingers. There was a lot of shooting going on. Can you honestly tell me that all of your men would have recognised me and known my intentions. I was looking for a familiar member of the White Collar Unit to bring me in."

Sondheim wrote something in her notes while Corriveau fumed, clearly trying to find a hole in Neal's logic. Whatever idiocies he would have spouted were forever lost, his voice drowned by the crash of the door opening and slamming against the wall. The tall figure of Hughes loomed in the doorway, not deigning to dignify the proceedings by his presence in the room.

"Caffrey, with me. Agent Corriveau, wrap things up here and I'll see you in my office in two hours." He turned on his heel and marched away, expecting instant obedience.

Neal was glad that he'd already removed his shackles, a lithe twist taking him out from behind the table, no one trying to stop him as he followed the clipped instructions. Both law officials felt the wrath contained in the terse directions, and Neal assumed it extended to him. There was a car waiting and it was parked illegally which spoke volumes about Hughes' state of mind. As he slid into the back, Neal realised that Diana was the driver which explained Hughes' conveniently timed arrival.

Diana scrutinized him in the rearview mirror. "Neal, do you need the hospital?" He declined the offer without protesting he was fine since his injuries might be good for a sympathy vote later. Silence fell, prickly with discomfort as each person in the car contemplated the recent situation. Neal made no attempt to lighten the atmosphere as he sat stewing in his own sense of injustice. For once, he had a totally clear conscience. He'd had no hidden agendas, no side mission, no benefit to him or his friends. He'd put himself in danger for entirely altruistic, law-abiding reasons and in return, he'd been chased, shot at, beaten, arrested and interrogated. He'd every reason for feeling badly used and no intention of taking such abuse.

By the time they arrived back at the FBI building, Neal had stoked up a high state of dudgeon. Diana dropped them off and he avoided her eyes, not wanting to see the message she was trying to convey. He followed Hughes into his office and declined the invitation to sit down, the imminence of explosion from the pressure of injustice too close to surrender to so passive an action as sitting.

"I want to file a formal complaint against Agent Corriveau," he burst out. "His actions on this operation endangered my life more than once, and despite the success of the mission, or because of it, he tried to find fault with my role in the proceedings and use them as an excuse to return me to jail, stating a clear prejudice against my position in this department. I don't care if I'm thrown back in jail, but I refuse to work undercover again with that man. In fact, I refuse to work undercover until Peter returns."

He was almost hyperventilating by the time he reached the end of the diatribe, partly from pent-up anger, partly from the mounting terror of his presumption in shouting at Hughes and the possibility he might take him up on the offer of jail.

Hughes was watching him with his normal frown which could have meant anything from contemplating immediate handcuffs to attempting to remember the scores of the 1980 World series. He stood and Neal nearly took a step back.

"Mr. Caffrey, on behalf of the FBI, I would like to apologise for the appalling treatment you've received and also commend you for your vital role in a successful operation."

"Oh..okay." Neal responded weakly. "I'll… I'll sit down now." He felt as if he'd been battling against the storm front of the FBI's full power, but with Hughes' apology, the winds had dropped to zero, but they had been the only thing holding him up. In the sudden relief that followed, he was close to collapse.

"Easy there." A firm but gentle hand guided him into a chair, then pressed a glass of water into his hand. "I strongly suggest you get yourself checked out at a hospital, then take the next couple of days off. I don't want to see your face in here again until next Monday. I'll sort things out at this end."

"Corriveau said…" Neal began.

"The only reason Corriveau is here is that clearly I don't have as much pull as the guy in Art Crimes who wanted to get rid of him. However, he has no say as to what happens to the personnel in this department."

"So, no jail then?"

"That ship has sailed," Hughes informed him gravely.

"That's goo….wait, what does that mean exactly?"

Hughes reseated himself, leaning back in the chair to regard Neal intently over steepled fingers, clearly weighing up some decision. Neal could practically see the teeter totter of pros and cons wavering behind his eyes. Knowing better than to try to influence Hughes with blandishments or even blatant curiosity, Neal settled back. Only his unease over the conversation banished the yawns that threatened to erupt.

Hughes didn't keep him in suspense for long. A fingernail tapped decisively on the desk. "I have a feeling that very few people in this department, if any, believe the story we've spread about Peter's temporary reassignment, but they know to pay it lip service and not inquire any further. You, however are incapable of not scratching your itch of curiosity, and I'm fairly sure you know more about your partner's movements than you should."

Neal donned his best 'I can neither confirm or deny' expression, but it only caused Hughes to nod knowingly. "That's what I thought." He didn't look displeased. He didn't say anything more but now that Peter's name had been introduced into conversation, Neal wasn't willing to stay silent.

"What does this have to do with Peter?"

Hughes pursed his lips. "The FBI needed Peter to take this assignment," he began carefully. In Neal's opinion, it wasn't a promising start and when Hughes again seemed disinclined to continue, his heart swooped low in his chest, thudding out a nauseated rhythm.

"I asked Peter if he'd been coerced into taking this assignment, if they'd used me against him in some way. Now I'm asking you the same thing."

To his credit, Hughes looked appalled at the notion. "We're not the Gestapo. I was merely trying to convey that it put him in a position of considerable leverage."

Neal wasn't sure he liked this line of conversation any better. "What did he do?" he asked, though he was far from sure he wanted the answer.

"Peter's been worried about the ...vulnerability of your position for a while. He wanted to ensure that a Kramer scenario couldn't occur again. His price for accepting this assignment was the wiping of your slate. That means..." he forestalled Neal's next question, "that you cannot be sent to jail for any felony committed before last month. You have to finish your time on the anklet, but your past crimes cannot be used against you. You are, of course, as liable for prosecution for any future crimes as the next man. However, that won't be an issue." He impaled Neal with a glare. "Because if, after Peter has gone to this trouble for you, you commit another crime, I'll deal with you first."

Neal nodded fervently, but mutely. The concept had dissected his psyche, splintering his emotions between immense relief, gratitude and a Mozzie-inspired inclination to ask for a guarantee in writing. However, dominating it all was a sick and aching sense of fear. This was nothing new, but it had been fertilized into prolific growth by the SAIC's words.

"I wish he hadn't done that," he murmured, almost to himself.

"If it helps," Hughes said, with surprising gentleness. "I think he was intending to take the assignment anyway. He merely seized an opportune bargaining moment."

"Do you know that for sure? Since he's been married, has he taken a long term undercover assignment?"

"No," Hughes allowed, "But there hasn't been a case of this importance or one where his presence was so vital. Look, Neal, I didn't tell you this to make you feel guilty. I just wanted you to know you were safe from the petty machinations of men like Corriveau."

Neal recognised the common sense behind the words and had even told himself the same things, but it didn't make the situation any more palatable. His atrophied guilt muscles would certainly get a workout if anything happened to Peter because he knew he'd never forgive himself. He had no intention of sharing that vulnerability with Hughes, but the SAIC was clearly waiting for some response, so Neal shrugged with what he hoped would be taken as reluctant acquiescence. He wasn't sure he'd fooled the shrewd eyes that appraised him, so he asked the first question that came to mind as a distraction.

"Have you heard from him?" There was no need to clarify the pronoun.

"No, but," Hughes added hastily. "that isn't necessarily a matter of concern. For the duration of this assignment, he isn't under my command. The only person Peter can contact directly is his handler in the terrorism unit." Hughes stood up, his back to Neal as he fished out a piece of paper from the filing cabinet. "Besides, I'm sure the Chechens aren't giving him much leisure time."

Neal hoped his ears hadn't pricked up as obviously as they had metaphorically. That was an extremely useful piece of information and it had been handed to him on a plate. Hughes turned back and handed the form to Neal. "Fill this out, then get yourself checked out." He suddenly sounded incredibly weary.

Neal was on the phone to Mozzie before he'd even reached his desk, relating the newly gained information and asking him to investigate this new link to the Chechens. He filled out his paperwork and said goodbye to Diana and was halfway home when Mozzie called.

"The organic matter is about to hit the proverbial ventilation device."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It wasn't unusual for Reese Hughes to stay late in his office. None of his subordinates were surprised that he didn't appear to have eaten since arriving in the building, seemingly gaining enough sustenance from his private supply of coffee which perculated with a gentle gurgle in the corner of his room.

The bleak intensity with which he was studying something on his computer was more atypical. He was scowling at the screen in such a way that would have caused instant disintegration if the object of his ire had been human. Not surprisingly, no one had interrupted his ruminations, each member of staff finishing his or her shift and slinking off without even a wave of farewell. Therefore, he was startled almost to the point of recoiling when someone had the temerity to not only enter his room, but to do so without the courtesy of knocking.

The words that were intended to excoriate the intruder faded away unspoken as he took in Diana, her normally cool, unflustered appearance frayed to the point of tatterdemalion by agitation. Her distress told him instantly what news she had burst in to share, and he dropped his eyes for a moment to conceal the emotions this engendered. Although, in her current state of distress, she would probably only have noticed if he jumped on the desk and danced out his conflicted feelings of relief, dismay and guilt. He'd said nothing that wasn't the truth, but he'd manipulated the young CI in the hopes that he'd succeed in the task that the SAIC himself couldn't attempt.

Regret softened his demeanor as he stared at his junior agent. "Agent Barrigan, what can I do for you?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you. It's Neal."

Hughes leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Isn't it always." It was a fair comment, given the emergency call he'd received from Diana after the debacle of the Stevens gang arrest.

"I don't know what's happened, but we appear to have lost him. He must have cut his anklet."

A muscle ticking in Hughes' jaw was his only visible reaction. "I see. I had better talk to the Marshals."

Diana took another step forward. "SIr, this is my fault. I take full responsibility. I should have made things clearer to Neal, reassured him, emphasized the fact that Corriveau couldn't actually send him to jail."

There was only so much weight one man could be expected to bear on his conscience. Hughes sighed. "Close the door and sit down, Agent Barrigan. We need to talk about Neal."


	6. Chapter 6

Glad you're still with me. Now the action really heats up - and hmm (embarrassed cough) please don't hate me. It will all be explained later.

Subterfuge Ch 6

"Never again." Lying in a small bed with the mattress coils stabbing him in the back as if there were nothing between him and the metal, while gazing up at the intricate pattern of mildew stains on the ceiling, Peter amused himself by dredging up every idiom he could think of to describe how he would never again accept a long-term undercover assignment. When hell freezes over, when pigs fly, on the first of Never, a snowball's chance in hell, a cold day in hell. It was funny how the majority of them incorporated the concept of hell, since Peter was fairly sure he was already there. This mission was boring as hell, frustrating as hell, and was certainly becoming as long as hell.

He had probably descended to the fifth circle by now, or whichever level was reserved for wayward FBI agents, however well-intentioned, who abandoned their wives for long-term assignments. He missed El, her absence a repeated punch to the heart, spreading the aching bruise of loneliness throughout his body. It was at moments like this, the quiet yet squalid interstices between the boredom and fear of his adopted job, that he missed her the most.

After eight weeks, the ugliness and brutality of his life as Peter Laslov was sullying his soul; maintaining the credibility of his role was compromising his sense of self, tarnishing his self-image with a patina of disillusionment. He yearned to hold his wife, to retrieve the core of his identity, the truth of his existence, in her embrace. She'd always been his touchstone, the eye in the storm of his personal hurricane, and now he could only imagine burying his face in the hollow of her neck, breathing in the comfort of her scent in that warm soft expanse of skin.

The temptation continually burned to find an untraceable phone to call her and hear her sweet, loving voice, and it wasn't fear of breaking his handler's stringent rules or of breaking his cover that stopped him. It was the knowledge that no form of communication was one hundred percent secure, and he couldn't take the risk of leading terrorists or mobsters to El. Nothing was worth the horror of that possibility.

The days should have been easier. At least he had the palliative of constant occupation to distract him from the alienation from his own world, but he missed the companionship and support of his team. Over the last few years, they had learned to work as a cohesive unit with an an unparalleled solve rate, refining their investigative technique and teamwork, and now his isolation felt bitter and unnatural.

Peter felt the absence of the entire White Collar unit, but in the diurnal hours, the person he missed more than any other was his partner. He could never have anticipated that when he'd kept his word and met Neal in jail that the young man would worm his way with such unerring accuracy past the barriers that were supposed to separate those who broke the law from those who enforced it.

At first he'd been entertained by his CI's haphazard mixture of intense focus and restless energy, yet even on the first day at the FBI, they'd fit together with the smooth ease of well-oiled cogs, gaining considerable mechanical advantage from their partnership. Three years later, they were connected by an intricate mesh of bonds forming a chain mail armor, bright and protective. With Neal's proclivity for finding trouble, Peter allowed his CI's presence to hover constantly on the edge of his awareness, a warm weight that grounded him while they worked. The loss of that mercurial presence was a black hole by his side.

The most discouraging thing about his undercover assignment was that, after eight weeks on the job, all he had learned was a creative compilation of new swear words from the dock workers. The FBI had created a strong background for him as the brilliant but disgraced accountant, Peter Laslov. Abramov boasted on his behalf that he kept the cleanest set of books this side of the MIssissippi and could hide millions in his neatly printed pages in such a way that no taxman or lawman could ever find them.

There was a lot of truth in that claim. Peter's experience with forensic accounting and many forms of embezzlement made him the perfect person to creatively 'cook the books'. This was the mirror image of Neal making the perfect CI because of the criminal expertise he brought to the table. He and Neal had learned a lot from each other - a cross-pollination that lent tremendous fertility and vitality to their partnership.

Despite Peter's unique access to the records of the crime family, he was no closer to uncovering the plans of the terrorists. Abramov had insisted he'd heard nothing more and that maybe his wasn't the only organization that had been contacted as potential carriers for whatever was to be smuggled into the country. In his admittedly infrequent optimistic moments, Peter wondered if there'd been a misunderstanding or if the plot had mysteriously, but fortuitously, petered out. He'd even taken an opportunity to contact his handler, the Assistant Director of the terrorism unit, Mark Tomkins, to ask how long he needed to maintain his undercover position if no further evidence of a possible attack was uncovered. The response, along the lines of 'not until we're 100 percent satisfied there's no threat' wasn't encouraging. It left him alternating between wanting to bang his head against a wall and actually doing it.

Peter eventually slid into a restless sleep, nightmares skulking at the edge of his awareness. Several times, he snapped out of sleep in a panic triggered by external noises - shouting reaching through thin walls from the streets outside - until eventually, before the dawn light filtered through threadbare curtains, he woke with El's name on his lips.

He stayed in bed unmoving, mentally preparing himself for the day, until it was light enough to renew his acquaintanceship with the spots on the ceiling. It was only a few steps to the small, mildew-stained bathroom where he stared at the scruffily-bearded stranger in the mirror. There was a sense of unkempt weariness marked by the deep bags under the eyes and the overlong hair. He certainly looked nothing like the sharp FBI agent Peter Burke, and he was no longer sure if that was a disguise or he was actually becoming Peter Laslov. The clothes he donned were also a far cry from the suit and tie of an office job. The faded jeans and dark hoodie identified him as part of the brotherhood of the Chechen mob.

His dingy apartment was close enough to the docks on which he worked to walk to his office, and it was probably his favorite part of the day. The air, while briny and heavily redolent of the tar and oil of the shipping industry, was still bracing, and for a time he felt free, unburdened by his current reality. However, as he neared the warehouses where he was based, he pulled on the persona of the mobster, maybe more academic than the majority, but still capable of the brutality.

"Morning," he greeted the security guard at the entrance who grunted a greeting before waving him in. Peter had wondered whether his lack of Chechen would prove a barrier to his acceptance in the organisation, but his claim of second-generation immigrant status wasn't unique.

The latest shipment had cleared customs, and it was part of Peter's job to check the inventory. He just needed to pick up the paperwork from his office before heading to the docks. Abramov was an old-fashioned criminal, seeming to prefer the physical security of ledgers he could ensure were adequately guarded over committing his records to computers which he regarded as eminently hackable by the US government and other interested parties.

Maybe it was merely technophobia, because the actions that allowed Peter complete access to those records didn't gel with those of a paranoid big-brother hater. Peter was familiar with that personality from all-too-painful experience. Of course, Abramov had worked out a deal for immunity for everything except murder and human trafficking, exceptions that Peter had insisted upon, knowing he wouldn't be unable to stand by while people were hurt.

Abramov's lieutenant and enforcer, Maskhadov, was in the office and nodded a perfunctory acknowledgment of Peter's arrival, but an antipathy bordering on hostility was evident in his eyes. As far as Peter was aware, Maskhadov was the only other person in the organization who was aware of his true identity, an inevitable result of their previous interaction.

Being known by his undercover alias didn't make Peter universally liked. His number one fan with a fist worked on the docks. Olegovitch had taken an instant dislike to Peter - his face, occupation, height, or lack of tattoos grating the burly Slav the wrong way, and he seized every opportunity for a confrontation. These had started off mostly verbal, posturing and insults from the other man, with Peter instinctively downplaying and evading the arguments, not wanting to draw attention to himself. However, it hadn't taken him long to realise that not even mild-mannered accountants could allow insults to go unmarked if they wanted to survive in the Bratva. So now, while not exactly relishing the encounters or seeking them out, he willingly met insult with higher class of insult and blow for blow.

He had some bruises to show for it, but had so far held his own. This day, however, he made the journey down to the docks unmolested by belligerent Russians. Peter had been surprised to find the Russian mob working hand in glove with the Chechens, knowing the historical animosity between the two regions. Abramov had explained it as a profitable venture, an opportunistic business initiative that had arisen from the US sanctions against Russia, and the retaliatory response, after their invasion of the Ukraine.

Peter's crew, led by a taciturn Chechen named Dzhamel, was waiting for him in the loading area. Even huddled in bulky jackets, they looked cold, and were grumbling unintelligibly about the weather conditions. They had performed this operation together many times in the last six weeks and had developed a comfortable routine. As Peter inventoried the contents of the crates, they were repackaged and reloaded back into the shipping containers for distribution to a variety of locations. This was part of the mob's legitimate business, genuine articles intended for market, but Peter was aware that this purpose wasn't altogether innocent, since the income generated was part of the money laundering scheme which formed a large part of their illegal profiteering.

The fact that the goods were probably bona fide didn't stop Peter from surreptitiously checking for contraband, especially of the explosive kind. The threat of a terrorist attack coupled with the rumor of something being smuggled into the country had led the FBI to the obvious conclusion that the object would be the components of a dirty bomb. Peter had been equipped with several passive devices that would inform him of the presence of radiation. A patch on the inside of his wrist band would change color if he were exposed to the slightest trace of nuclear material, but so far it had remained stubbornly and blandly brown.

The morning proved to be another exercise in futility - more hours of free labor donated to the mob. In his more cynical moments, Peter couldn't help but ponder what an excellent scam it would be: mention the word terrorism, and Abramov got expert professional help for months and a free pass on his crimes. The only spanner in this elegantly Machiavellian plan, the one blemish that prevented Peter from reporting this seriously to his superiors, was that he now had an intimate knowledge of everything from bank accounts to shell companies to distribution networks, which ultimately made it a prohibitively inconvenient and expensive con.

He'd reached the point where a ticking device or a glow-in-the-dark liquid would actually be a welcome relief from the monotony of his mafia career. He dismissed his team early for lunch and, looking officious with a clipboard and a pen, he used his relative solitude to explore the warehouses further. Such peregrinations had allowed him to explore a large portion of the area. He had, however, been unable to venture into the part of the yard that had been loaned out, probably at an exorbitant rate, to the Russians. The few times he'd ventured close, he'd been accosted by his Russian nemesis before he'd had an opportunity to observe anything useful.

Earlier, he'd regarded that as a matter of proximity but now, with paranoia levels set to "I want to go home now," he wondered if it weren't a deliberate policy to discourage casual visitors. He shrugged internally. Theories had to be tested, and the cost of the scientific method would probably be additional bruises. He strolled towards that corner of the compound whistling nonchalantly and, sure enough, as he neared the Russian office, Olegovitch popped up like a well-trained guard dog.

Peter's heart rate doubled instantly with an almost audible whoosh of adrenaline, an atavistic response that veered disproportionately to the fighting end of the acute-stress response spectrum. The man was maybe an inch or two shorter than him, but tipped the scales a hundred pounds heavier - the eponymous 'muscle' of the organisation. In a fair fight, Peter probably had the training to take him down, but using FBI fighting techniques would be tantamount to pinning on a departmental identification badge and waving his credentials for all to see. This would be the traditional brutal exchange of blows, in which Peter's only advantage was his speed.

The Russian had killed before, as evidenced by the facial tattoos he boasted. Peter was counting on the fact that it must be bad form to kill or severely maim a valued member of another family who was offering hospitality. However, it was entirely probable that pride would outweigh such niceties as courtesy, and this enforcer would lose considerable face if beaten by a paper pusher. Avoiding the fight altogether would certainly be preferable, but any appearance of reluctance to engage would make the conflict more inevitable. The only benefit of that display of pride was that it prohibited accepting assistance from the two muscle-bound goons flanking him. Three-to-one odds would otherwise veer perilously close to suicide.

A career with the FBI, however, had afforded multiple opportunities for confronting murderers, psychopaths and assorted other criminals bent on mayhem and mutilation and thus for developing techniques to deal with attempted intimidation. Acknowledging the tension by matching the aggressive stance would only lead to escalation - the inevitable pissing contest of alpha males. Just as fatal was showing signs of fear, or even conciliation, which would end with metaphorical fangs buried in his neck. Instead, he affected an impassive countenance, marginally tinged with ennui, which subtly suggested he had better places to be, and once his business was complete, he'd be happy to depart.

"I appreciate the welcome committee, but it really wasn't necessary," he stated dryly.

"убирайся," came the succinct response, and if Peter's Russian wasn't sufficient to translate, the accompanying gesture clarified the issue.

Ignoring the less-than-subtle invitation to remove himself from the area, Peter persevered, the complete lack of expression on his face still managing to characterize itself as bored. "It appears that when we vacated the warehouse for your temporary occupancy, we carelessly left a few items behind. I've been sent to retrieve them. I do apologize for the inconvenience."

"Ni khuya sebe!"

Peter reflected wryly that it wasn't merely his education in English invective that was flourishing. However, he took advantage of the macaronic nature of the conversation to feign misunderstanding. "I appreciate your cooperation." During the momentary confusion this caused, he slipped past them towards the warehouse, but he had barely managed two steps beyond them when a large hand latched on to his arm, jerking him to a stop and pulling him around as if he were a cardboard puppet. Instinctively, he twisted his shoulder, a manoeuvre that freed him from the grasp and, more fortuitously, took him out of the path of the oncoming meaty fist that momentarily filled his vision like a looming asteroid. Shrugging his coat back into a sartorially appropriate position, he turned to face the three men again, this time positioned between them and their territory.

"Gentlemen, is there a problem? I thought we'd reached an agreement." His tone held the disappointment of a teacher surprised by his favourite student's rudeness. "It'll just take me a minute, then I'll be out of your way."

He didn't take his eyes off Olegovitch, needing the split-second warning from the dip of a shoulder that would telegraph that the big Russian was launching a new attack. He kept his distance while doing his best impersonation of Switzerland. Beyond the Russians, near the entrance to the docks, his foreman, Dzhamel, strode into view, closely followed by the work crew. They were clearly in no hurry to return to the job, but as they continued along the path it wouldn't take long for them to notice the confrontation, and Peter couldn't quite decide if that were an outcome to be desired or avoided.

His initial instinctive reaction was relief, recognising them as automatic allies. However, while his mouth continued the conversation on automatic, he reconsidered the issue and decided they were equally likely to instigate the fight he was trying to eschew. Of course, the greatest likelihood was that they would merely act as interested witnesses to him being knocked on his ass.

He made one last effort to diplomatically dissipate the tension. "I'm sure you appreciate that I have to follow the Boss's orders."

The Russian fired back something that Peter thought roughly translated to, "And I'm doing what my Boss told me to do." However, since the only word he actually recognised was the word for Boss, he could have been saying that Peter's Boss could stick licorice up his nose and sneeze, which is what it actually sounded like he was saying.

Any response Peter could have summoned to that was interrupted by Dzhamel with three of the crew at his back, the other two possibly sent for reinforcements. "Excuse me, Sir, could I have a word?"

Peter felt like giving him a hug, simply for speaking English, albeit with a thickly encrusted accent, and allowed the man to draw him off to the side while the others continued the stand off.

"Not meaning any disrespect, Sir, but Abramov said to stay away from the Russians and this strikes me as rather the opposite."

"Abramov's orders," Peter explained. "There's something I need to get from their warehouse, and I asked real politely."

"I'm sure you know what you doing." There was a slight pause, "But are you sure you know what you're doing? Olegovitch is a mean SOB and he's big."

It wasn't exactly skepticism in Peter's abilities, but more a recognition of his position in the organisation. He was an accountant and compiling numbers at someone wasn't the best defence. Dzhamel was offering Peter an out from what would be a painful and quite possibly humiliating situation, and it was an offer that needed to be considered, since it would impact his undercover role.

Peter wasn't a brawler by nature, and there was a definite temptation to avoid the fracas, besides the obvious reasons of health and safety. Accountants were not generally fighters, and staying inconspicuous might be a wiser choice. However, the mafia didn't tend to place a high value on sedentary pursuits, and having the respect of his temporary colleagues would almost certainly garner him greater acceptance and, thus, expedite an end to the case.

'Oh, I don't know," he said consideringly in response, ignoring all the rules of visual perspective. "He's not that big."

His strategy was an instant success, judging by Dzhamel's slap on the back and the utterance of something incomprehensible in Chechen that sounded vaguely approving. Unwillingly buoyed by this tacit support, he strolled back to Olegovich. "I'm going in now," he stated plainly.

Olegovich wasn't an innovative man, and Peter was able to evade the identical haymaker he threw with ease. This time, however, the Russian didn't desist after one discouraging failure to connect, and Peter was forced to protect himself from a flurry of punishing blows. A flood of adrenaline helpfully, if temporarily, mitigated the impact of those that landed.

Peter moved lightly on his feet, a dance of quick steps that carried him out of range then back in for a quick shot of his own. The rhythm was instinctive, and his awareness of the rest of the world fell away. He didn't hear the patter of shoes on the harsh concrete and no longer felt the chill of the air as it invaded his lungs in quick, panted breaths. He no longer saw the avid faces of the spectators gathered around them like tennis fans unexpectedly winning front seats at Wimbledon. His focus was solely on the dip of his opponent's shoulder, the flicker of intent in his eye, anything to gain a split second of advantage.

He had no idea how long they fought. It could have been a minute; it could have been an hour. Time was marked exclusively by the thud of fists on ribs, the pained grunts of acknowledged hits. Both men were aiming mainly for the body, the Russian because it was a larger and less mobile target than the head, and Peter because he was fairly sure his hand would sustain more damage than the Russian's face. Unless he could be sure of a knock-out blow, it wasn't worth the risk.

"Стоп!"

Luckily, 'stop' in Russian sounded very similar to 'stop' in English, so Peter reacted as instinctively to the authoritarian command as did his opponent. The torrent of slavic vowels and consonants that followed, however, was totally unintelligible to him - not that he was expending much effort on an attempt to translate. For a moment, his surroundings were spinning, angles stretching elastic and distorted around him while the docks revolved sickeningly, greasy and damp. He took in a cautiously deep breath, attempting to reassure his battered ribs that he came in peace.

It was the sound of English being spoken that eventually grounded him, Abramov repeating his diatribe in a second language for the benefit, or more accurately the excoriation, of the non-Chechen speakers present. Peter had been unaware of the mafia boss approaching, but now Abramov took control of the situation, firing pointed questions and demanding instant answers. Peter forced his mind to stop spinning rudderlessly, taking in a deep breath and releasing it slowly, allowing a veneer of calm to settle over his face like a well-worn mask, even if it was stretched too thin to last long. The Pakhan's arrival was an opportunity to fulfil his objective if the Chechen picked up on the cues Peter would feed him.

As Abramov turned to him for an explanation, Peter responded with an expression of aggrieved injustice. "I wasn't looking for trouble, Boss, I was just following your orders, getting the equipment from the warehouse." For a terrifying moment, with the potentially disastrous consequences swimming waveringly before his eyes, Abramov looked blank, too caught up in the exercise of his own authority to follow Peter's lead. However, he wasn't head of a powerful criminal organisation merely for his capability to make ruthless decisions, and there was only a split second before comprehension dawned.

"Your understanding of your orders lacks the … sophistication that I expect of my staff. We will discuss this deficiency later."

Peter ducked his head, attempting an expression that realistically combined apprehension and chastened disgruntlement. Abramov turned back to the Russians. "My accountant confused enthusiasm for his task with compliance with my wishes, and I apologise for his overly zealous conduct. However, I do need the equipment he referred to. While you carried out your orders commendably, I'm sure that your boss didn't intend such directions to extend to me. After all, these are my warehouses."

Olegovich looked like he wanted to protest, but clearly decided that discretion was the better part of defying a mafia boss in front of a score of his men eager to prove their loyalty. While not exactly extending a gilded invitation, his lowered eyes and docile body language signalled his compliance. Abramov nodded his satisfaction, and with an imperious signal for Peter to follow him, he strode toward the building, the crowd parting for him in a manner that was almost biblical.

However, as the door shut firmly behind them, he rounded on his ersatz accountant. "What the hell are you trying to do? I'm attempting to cement an alliance with the Russians, and you're on the verge of starting a war."

Peter knew that the security of his undercover role and, thus, his continued existence was dependent on the Chechen's support, but apologizing for possibly weakening inter-mafia ties went against the grain, so he settled for a mildly conciliatory shrug. "This is the one place I've had no access, and it strikes me that they're working very hard to keep everyone away."

He missed the Chechen's skeptical hitch of eyebrows in his own interest in the surroundings. They'd entered an office where half-empty bottles of vodka and discarded cards on a small table delineated the activities they'd interrupted. Beyond that, barely visible through dingy windows, was the cavernous warehouse.

"We only have a matter of minutes," Abramov's voice broke through his dismay. "Anything beyond that is going to be suspicious. What do you want me to do?"

"Find something that belongs to you, something that substantiates our excuse for entering. Meanwhile keep your eyes out for anything unusual, anything that strikes you as incongruous."

Peter pulled up his sleeve for better access to his watch, hoping that a perfunctory sweep might turn up something, but it remained as stubbornly uninterested as it had the previous two months, leading to two possible conclusions - either it was defective or the putative plot had shrivelled to a malign fantasy. He couldn't afford to be wrong about this, so he started to question the assumptions they'd made. Given the geographic origin of the threat - the former Soviet republics - the accepted theory had been that the threat was nuclear, but Russian republics had more to export than vodka, Matruyska dolls and excess nuclear material. What would they need to smuggle into the country? It would have to be something that couldn't be safely procured in America. He tried to look at the bland surroundings with a fresh eye, the mounting pressure of desperation aching in his gut. This only intensified as the Mob boss materialized at his shoulder.

"We need to go," Frustration deepened the growl of his consonants. "Staying any longer would be suspicious."

"Two more minutes," Peter responded automatically. "Look around you. What is out of place?"

"I don't have x-ray vision, so I have no idea what's in the crates, and even if we had time to open them, to do so without leaving evidence of our actions would be impossible. This is pointless. Let's go."

"Check the office. I'll take a last look around here." Recognising the truth behind Abramov's observation, Peter ignored the crates, exploring the periphery of the warehouse. His eyes were drawn to a dark corner where a dirty tarpaulin was draped over what looked like several large barrels. Cautiously, he lifted a corner of the cover and peered underneath. His first glance wasn't particularly enlightening. The drums were the standard 55 gallon size, probably a faded blue, but the heavy layer of corrosion and rust mostly concealed the true color. There were some faded letters in the Cyrillic alphabet, but the mostly erased print would need serious decoding even if he understood the language. The skull and crossbones symbol, however, pronounced the contents as poisonous.

There were many perfectly legitimate materials that merited that designation that were used regularly along the docks, but it needed further investigation. He put out a hand and gave the nearest barrel a experimental shove, testing for contents, but he might as well have nudged an elephant. He put a bit more heft behind the next push, but the resulting shock to his frame, courtesy of Newton's third law of motion, reminded him that he'd just been in a vicious fight, and at most it acknowledged his effort by shifting a mere millimeter. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, before repeating the basic test far more cautiously on the other seven barrels, and found them all equally laden. He wiped the residual of rust and unidentifiable crud off his coat with distaste and, with sudden worry, checked his watch, afraid that it might be some form of nuclear waste. This time, he felt only relief at the negative result.

"What do have there?" Abramov materialized at his side.

"No idea, but they're apparently toxic. Have you seen them before?"

"They weren't here when the Russians moved in." The mob boss had his phone out with his flashlight on, peering more closely at the barrels.

"Can you translate anything?"

"They seem to be mostly identification markings, but there's too much missing to get a positive reading. But here, look!"

Peter stooped down, suppressing the grunt of pain that the added pressure on bruised ribs squeezed out of him, to peer at the scrap of paper, the torn-off remnant of a label. Its relative cleanliness marked it as a recent addition in the storied life of the drum. There were several unintelligible words ripped through, but at the bottom, printed in its entirety, was a chemical formula. A couple of undergraduate chemistry courses at university allowed him to recognise most of the constituent parts of the compound and even hazard an attempt at parsing out the name.

"Tri-chlorine...trichlorosodium…"

Meanwhile Abramov was busy tapping the formula into his phone before holding it out to Peter in technological triumph.

"Trichlorasodimethylamine…" Peter read without recognition, but then broke off, catching sight of another entry lower down in the search engine, and snatched the phone from the Chechen's hands to peruse it more carefully.

"'Mimics the effects of chloraminated water...then reacts with lead in the plumbing to form a colloid of extreme toxicity.'" His voice trailed off as he scrolled further down, scanning the information quickly. "Used in a terrorist attack in Brunei in 2002 when rebels attacked the capital protesting against martial law. Hundreds died, many others permanently disabled." He looked up at the other man, a deep, dark feeling filling his chest like glue, slowing down his organs and thought processes. "There isn't a dirty bomb. They're going after the water supply."

"Surely there isn't that much lead in most systems now." The light from the phone obscured Abramov's expression, but his tone wavered between scepticism and optimism, the combination suggesting that denial was indeed a lovely place this time of year.

"You'd have thought so, but that's the terrifying brilliance of this plan. When water leaves a treatment plant, it tends to be lead free, so the tricholora whatchamacallit won't activate and won't set off any alarms, since it will only be recognised as a disinfectant purifying the water. However, once the water enters the service lines leading to the individual customers, contamination will begin. Not only do many houses still have lead pipes, but brass fittings can leach lead as can lead solder on copper pipes."

Abramov looked incredulous at this overflow of information. Peter shrugged. "We looked into replacing the pipes at our house, and M...the plumber was extremely vocal on the subject. Believe me, I know just how prevalent lead is in drinking water. This article suggests that it's not just ingesting water that's dangerous; chemical contamination would be just as dangerous through showers or the dishwasher, since heating the water liberates the dissolved substances and will essentially suffocate the victim."

"What are we going to do?" The question was offered grudgingly in a way that suggested Abramov's first choice was machine guns at dawn with an alternate plan, if there were unanswered questions, of thumb screws and bastinado tools. Asking Peter's opinion was clearly a novel and not entirely welcome acknowledgement of his legal authority.

"We will inform my supervisor of our discovery and suspicions as quickly as possible." Peter's response was firm. Door number three was the only option, the others locked and barred. "I don't believe possession of this stuff is illegal in and of itself. It probably has a legitimate industrial use."

Abramov looked dissatisfied and mildly scathing at the lack of definitive action in this reply, but shrugged Slavic acceptance, glancing at this watch. "We need to go. We've been in here too long. It will arouse suspicion."

Peter looked around. "Did you find something to justify our intrusion."

"No, we cleared the place out thoroughly before handing it over. There's nothing of ours here."

Shrugging out of his coat, Peter wrapped it around his clipboard and handed it to the Mafia boss. "This will have to do. Hopefully it will deflect questions."

Emerging onto the docks was an assault on the senses, the daylight harsh in his eyes after the dim interior, and the wind cutting bitterly through him without the protection of his coat. Both the brightness and the chill should have worked to dispel the web of conspiracy that had woven sticky tendrils of fear around him in the warehouse. There was certainly a more immediate danger literally facing him. If Olegovitch's eyes could have delivered the fire of hate that burned within, Peter would have been incinerated on the spot. As it was, the Russian clearly placed the blame for humiliation and loss of status squarely on Peter's shoulders and, while instant retribution might not be possible, Peter had no intention of turning his back in a dark alley or of giving the Russian something sharp to play with. Actually, that was true of every man in this organisation up to and including Abramov, but Olegovitch would vault over the dying body of his mother while singing the Hallelujah chorus to be first in line in the alley.

Testifying in court had accustomed Peter to temporarily impotent death glares from violent criminals. He didn't avoid the other man's eyes, but neither did he allow a trace of triumphant smugness to tint his own expression, maintaining a practiced impassivity. Olegovitch was no longer a concern. The agent's analytical mind was systematically shredding each item of this putative plot, examining each particle from every angle before trying to fit it back into a larger puzzle.

Gut instinct insisted that this was a credible threat, but self-awareness interjected a voice of reason that pointed out that he was desperate to bring his exile to an end and return to his family, friends and life and therefore might be unconsciously fabricating a plot from the most flimsy of evidence. When he pondered it logically in the bright light of day, it seemed implausible. The chemistry of the issue was beyond his scientific understanding, but reason suggested that the vast quantities of water involved would dilute the poison to the point of innocuousness. However, it was possible the attack was more focused. Maybe they intended to introduce the toxins not at a reservoir, but a fire hydrant or other local distribution point.

Was there a larger goal here? Was it an attack or a distracting feint, or was the potential of death and destruction an end in itself? Even the unconfirmed rumor of a credible threat to the water supply of a large metropolitan area like New York could cause panic, disrupting the financial heart of the country. A panicking population could cause riots and civil unrest, weakening the economy further, surely a goal for any terrorist enemy of the US. These were all valid questions, but hopefully he wouldn't be the one who was tasked with finding the answers. He just needed to get the information to his handler, Tomkins; then, hopefully, he would have completed his role. He would communicate his findings as soon as he could get to a safe phone.

This optimistic plan was derailed, or at least postponed, by Maskhadov intercepting them as they re-entered the office. He greeted them with a spate of Chechen, causing the Mob boss to check his watch.

"I have a meeting with some...customers," he translated for Peter's benefit.

Peter accepted this as a dismissal and was pondering the problem of how quickly he could leave the premises when Abramov added. "I'd like you to join us in about twenty minutes. Use the time to gather material to make a convincing presentation on the health of our business with the Balkans, and the feasibility of our… alternative import/export business propositions."

Peter wanted to protest that he had more important things to attend to than assisting in the build-up of the Mob's smuggling operation, but he knew better than to challenge Abramov in front of his own men, even one who knew the agent's true identity. It was a tenuous alliance between them, entered into voluntarily, but dependent on trust and respect on both sides. Peter was under no illusion that his position was insecure, if not downright precarious - an awkwardly placed mole who could easily be whacked if his true nature was revealed.

"Yes, Boss." He ducked his head to conceal the impatience in his eyes, before retreating into his suddenly claustrophobic office, his frustration beating a rapid tattoo against the closing walls. It was amazing how possessing information that could save thousands of lives could alter his perception of himself and of his surroundings. He felt raw and oddly misshapen, as if he'd been taken apart and reassembled not only in the wrong order but in a body one size too small. It could be argued that being the sole possessor of such vital information, at least the only one aligned with the law, made him extremely valuable. However, the converse was actually true. As long as he could pass along the information, he was utterly expendable, one life negligible in the balance against so many.

The simplicity of numbers combined with the complexity of their operations usually soothed and grounded Peter, but he was finding it difficult to concentrate. The figures swirled as meaningless graffiti scrawled distractingly over the paper. His office had never exactly pulsated with warm and friendly vibes, but now it seemed positively inimicable. He had been undercover many times before and had never fallen into the trap of assuming suspicion in every hostile face. But now, with so much more than his own life on the line, he was hyper-aware of an abnormal number of people passing by his window, an unprecedented activity level that alarmed on every level. While he was intellectually aware that there was probably an unrelated cause, his secret knowledge was like a toxin, a heavy metal tainting his blood and spreading paranoia like cancer in its wake. Every incomprehensible foreign syllable overheard, every approaching footfall and casual glance in his direction took on sinister purpose.

He forced himself to concentrate and finish gathering the figures Abramov requested. The strain of the situation ached in his muscles, tension thrumming under his skin as nervous energy. He needed to project confidence and competence. He gathered up all the papers he'd prepared and took a deep steadying breath. He laid his hands flat on his desk, surprised to find they weren't shaking, then pushed himself to his feet, wavering only slightly as the blood tried to drain south from his head to be pushed instantly back by a cresting wave of adrenaline. Methodically, he straightened his clothes, then tucked the paperwork under one arm, forcing himself back inside the skin of Peter Laslov. The adopted persona acted as white noise between the weighty burden he carried and the synapses of his brain. Peter the FBI agent might care deeply about terrorist plots, but Peter the mob accountant was focused on other concerns.

He strode confidently out of his office, joining the bustle of activity in the corridor. Clearly Peter wasn't privy to all the ramifications of Abramov's meeting with his 'customers', which indicated a level of secrecy or distrust that was worrying. The worm of unease that he had attempted to tranquilise reawoke and metamorphized into its larger and more vicious cousin, sinking sharp teeth into Peter's gut. It wasn't paranoia if they really were out to get you. There was a strong temptation to turn around and walk briskly away, but twisted logic informed him that if he were allowed to leave the premises, there was no reason to actually do so, so why bother trying. It would merely inform them of his suspicions and curtail his movements.

The two heavies who had been posted at the door of the meeting room to ensure privacy and protection had been alerted to expect him, and they made no objection to his approach. Inside, four men were huddled around a table - Abramov and Maskhadov facing him. The former waved him in impatiently, but the enforcer regarded him with a glint of malice in his eye. As Peter circled the table, he realised, with an icy pang of fear, why. One of the visitors was a stranger, but the other was an acquaintance of the worst kind - a criminal adversary.

Milo Stankic had originally been a contact of Mozzie's and had worked with the little Machiavellian mastermind and Neal on some 'project' - Neal had neglected to supply any specific details as to what this entailed. So when the Serbian had turned up as the lieutenant of a gang working on a forgery scheme, and the Treasury Department had asked for their help infiltrating the group, Milo had provided the entree for Neal to join.

The White Collar team had successfully foiled the counterfeiting ring, arresting and jailing the leader, but several of the other members of the gang, including Milo, had slipped away. It appeared that he had moved on, promoting himself to more ambitious schemes. Peter hadn't directly interrogated him, as he had some of his co-conspirators, but he had played a major role in the prosecutor's case, testifying against the accused. He was fairly sure the Serbian could and would recognise and expose him.

It felt as if he'd been skating on very thin ice for several hours, but now it cracked and dropped him into the freezing water below. It was terrifying, yet somehow the shock of the cold cleared his mind, leaving a refreshing clarity of thought.

In the mirror that morning, he had noted the vast discrepancy between the FBI agent in his habitat and the scruffy ruffian looking back at him. Reaching into his pocket, he dug out a pair of glasses to complete the disguise. Neal had taught him the essence of the con, the importance of misdirection. He needed to keep Milo focused on the papers he carried and the information they contained, so he gave them a distracting rustle before placing them down in front of the Serbian at an angle that carried his eye away from Peter. He leaned forward, allowing his longer hair to fall forward concealing the line of his cheekbone. He kept his own gaze on the papers, avoiding the possibility of eye contact.

He pointed at the figures with his pen as he started his explanation. The tension residing in his jaw tried to sharpen his consonants and shrink his vowels. He'd been around the Chechens long enough to fall into their cadence, deepening his voice. There was no reason for Milo to be interested in him, he was a mere functionary, boring and ultimately unimportant. Breathing that prosaic dullness through his pores, he could hear Neal's instructions in his head, "Don't play a role, become it."

As he finished, he tapped the last line firmly and pushed the papers closer to Milo before straightening up, once more angling his body away.

"Thank you, Peter. Gentlemen, any questions?"

Peter wasn't surprised when the Serbians declined the invitation, probably disinclined to say anything that might encourage the resumption of monotonous facts. As discussions between the two primaries resumed, he was grateful that English was the language of negotiation between Chechen and Serbs, so he was able to follow the conversation while attempting to look as nondescript as possible, offering only the occasional bland comment when prompted.

While taking in the basics of the transaction, he multitasked by pondering the question of Abramov's intentions. Maybe life with Neal had accustomed him to looking for ulterior motives. Neal rarely operated on one level at a time, his agile mind skipping joyfully around like the queen on a 3D chessboard. Peter would freely admit that, while he was good at anticipating and blocking most moves, he almost certainly didn't catch them all. However, that was Neal. Their minds worked in counterpoint and harmony, which made them such an effective team. His CI might be occasionally thoughtless as to the consequences of his actions, but he'd never intentionally hurt anyone. Abramov was a different brand of criminal. No one became head of an international mafia family without being extremely dangerous and ruthless. His motivations were far more opaque.

Even after contorting his mind in a multiplicity of directions, Peter could see no way that Abramov could benefit from setting up this alliance then betraying it at this stage. Yet, he still couldn't quiet that inner voice that insisted he was in danger. To pacify his disquiet, he kept a corner of his brain running escape scenarios. He had memorized all the exits in the complex and knew all the regular guard shifts. The docks were almost certainly his best bet with a plethora of places to conceal himself. As a last resort, there was the water, but at the present temperatures he probably wouldn't last for two minutes. Once he'd worked out the safest route, with several contingency alternatives, he mentally labelled it 'survival plan' while filing it under P for 'pessimism'.

The talks concluded with a temporary agreement, cemented on all sides by hand shakes. Peter wiped his palm surreptitiously on his trouser leg, not wanting a sweaty hand to betray his nervousness, then presented it for an uncharacteristically limp shake, which he felt was more in keeping with his milquetoast invisibility cloak. It was hard to pull off at six foot two, but death was a great motivator.

He let the others precede him from the room, concealing the relief he felt at their departure. This reprieve was short-lived as Abramov stopped him at the door.

"I need you to stay for a while longer." As Peter started to protest, he lifted a pacifying hand. "I know you need to report what we found to Agent Tomkins. I'm happy to do it for you, or if you feel you should do it in person, you can use the phone in my office. It's a safe place where no one will check the records. Maskhadov will accompany you."

Peter had no choice but to agree, and it did meet the most important criterion of passing on the critical information to his handler. Yet, he could feel a tingle in the hairs of his leg as if a metaphorical trap were tightening around it. He followed Maskhadov meekly, feigning complacency if not eagerness, but in reality, his mind was racing faster than his heart. He might not be sure whether or not to trust Abramov, but he certainly didn't trust Maskhadov.

His options were narrowing down to a finite point. He could put his trust in the Chechen mob, make his phone call and cross his fingers - not his favorite form of defense. The alternative was to take out Maskhadov once they entered the office, not an easy task since it would have to be fast and silent. The enforcer was certain to be armed and Peter wasn't, so crossing his fingers wasn't a bad idea here either since this plan was probably doomed to failure even before he executed "Pessimism". However, he would go out fighting. He remembered Neal's last words to him - "Come back, whatever it takes," emphasized by El's red eyes, but couldn't decide which option was more conducive to following the command. It would probably end up being, not a decision, but a split-second reaction to Maskhadov's body language.

To get to Abramov's office, they had to pass the dining hall, a large area that was used for many off-duty activities and was currently being prepared for the celebratory meal. Beer and vodka had already been broken out, and the area teemed with members of both gangs. As they wended their way through the already slightly tipsy masses, Peter kept a sharp eye out for any of Milo's compatriots who had had previous dealings with him or for anyone paying too-close attention to their passage, since it might complicate his return.

As recognition struck, his heart stuttered so violently it appeared to push all the oxygen out of his lungs. The figure was wearing a woolen beanie hat pulled down tight over his ears and was mostly turned away, but there was no mistaking that form. No one moved the same way Neal Caffrey did. Peter had watched in trepidation as Neal had leapt from a cable car and jumped from a window. He had chased him as he tried to escape and watched him run to the rescue. He'd kicked his feet off the coffee table and shoved his hip off his desk. He'd admired him painting and sculpting and even forging. Whether playing royalty, lumberjack or assassin, Neal moved with a lithe grace that was unmistakable.

The sight of him engendered a confused welter of emotions, not an unusual reaction. The most immediate feeling was fierce joy, founded in fellowship and familiarity, grounded in a sense of companionship and concomitant security. Finally, there was someone around he could trust to watch his back. Hard on its heels, though, came frustration and worry. Neal was supposed to be safe. His whole family was supposed to be safe back home. It was one of the conditions Peter had insisted on before taking the job. There were a whole lot of other emotions he didn't bother to identify that he could have added to the swirling mix, but they were all swamped by a huge wave of adrenaline which crested and broke over them all because the final thing he sensed was anticipation. Neal was never boring. He loved dramatics, and any plan he devised was bound to have flair and be explosive, figuratively if not literally.

He wasn't disappointed. Actually that wasn't true. He was disappointed and horrified and perhaps he'd even throw shocked in there, although he shouldn't have been surprised that Neal did the last thing he expected. He turned in Peter's direction when he was only two yards away, close enough for Peter to see the yellowish-green remains of an extensive shiner around his right eye, then did a convincing double-take of shock and anger, pointing an accusing finger. "What the hell is HE doing here? He's a spy; he's FBI."

It was as if someone had punched Peter in the stomach, then wrapped his intestines around a fist and tugged. Neal might as well have slathered Peter in chum with a side of bacon and thrown him into shark-infested waters - half-drunk sharks maybe, but starving all the same.

Peter's own sense of uncomprehending, bewildered betrayal dulled his usual excellent improvisational ability. As he went down in a hail of kicks and blows, he thought he saw a flash of panic twist the expression of vindictive triumph on Neal's face.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: Most of you seem inclined to trust me, but there are doubters out there! As if I'd ever do anything to damage the relationship between Peter and Neal. However, explanations will have to wait. Trust me!

Subterfuge Ch 7

Everything hurt. Well, that might be an exaggeration. It was possible there was a small patch on his right pinkie toe that had avoided injury, but apart from that, there wasn't a single inch of his anatomy that didn't throb or ache or sting. His ribs hurt as if they'd been hit with a baseball bat. No, he was confused - that wasn't a metaphor but the literal truth. They didn't feel like ribs any longer, but more like sharp confetti.

His taste buds had become accustomed to the harsh, metallic taste in his mouth, but his tongue still sought out the chipped loose tooth. One eye had swollen shut, the bruises on cheekbone and eyebrow attempting to merge. He wondered if that is what had happened to Neal's... no, he'd decided not to think about Neal.

Every breath burned despite his attempt to keep them small and regulated. He inhaled as if his lungs were made of handspun glass, fragile and lacy, as if an untoward movement would shatter them, multiplying the stabbing sensation that currently accompanied every flex and pull. His current position exacerbated the situation, but there wasn't a lot he could do about that since he was tied hand and foot to a remarkably inflexible chair (and wasn't it a sad commentary on his life that he could write an essay on "Comparative qualities of chairs to which I have been tied").

He attempted to relieve the pressure on his ribs and, incidentally, expedite an escape, by yanking hard on the ties restraining his right hand - not the first time he'd tried, judging by the slippery feeling of blood and the accompanying pain around his wrist - but it caused tendrils of agony to wrap around his side and spine, tugging him down, his vision blacking out for an indeterminate amount of time.

It wasn't the first time he'd lost consciousness, but he'd discovered that wasn't a bad thing during an interrogation, especially when you didn't have any answers to the questions that hammered you along with fists from all sides. Any responses he gave might compromise Abramov, whose allegiances were still murky. It seemed likely that a Mafia boss who knowingly cooperated with the FBI and allowed an agent to infiltrate his family, thus jeopardizing all its members, would be deposed, probably violently, with prejudice and sharp objects. He also didn't know if his answers would jeopardize Neal if… nope, still not going there.

Luckily, at least by some definition of luck, the interrogation hadn't been that sophisticated - no electricity or fine tools, just fists and blunt objects. Not a particularly intelligent technique for somebody already suffering from a concussion. After maybe the fourth time he passed out, and the second time he'd vomited on someone's shoes, they'd left him alone. He didn't miss them, but there were few distractions or pastimes when one was trussed up, unable to as much as scratch one's nose or, in this case, wipe the blood off it. In their absence, there was nothing to muffle the noisy, restless spool of thoughts that was uncoiling like ticker tape inside his addled brain.

Peter wasn't as concerned with his own plight as he was with the fact that he'd been unable to get the information to his handler about the possible terrorist plot. He had been so close to making that telephone call when Neal…

He really had to escape from this chair. It would be so much easier if he'd been restrained with handcuffs because Neal had taught him...

His interrogators had been gone for a while. He hoped it wasn't because they were questioning Neal.

Neal.

All mental roads led to Neal. Peter knew his concussion was bad when his mind supplied an image of Neal wearing a toga and a crown of laurels. Spitefully, he added a fiddle and encouraged the image to burn. It didn't help and afforded him no satisfaction. The bottom line was he loved Neal like a son, a little brother, best friend, complicated ankle-tagged enigma. Despite the temptation to add the adjectives treacherous and back stabbing, he couldn't bring himself to do it, because it just wasn't true and he couldn't force himself to believe it.

He didn't fool himself that he had plumbed the entirety of Neal's depths, but although the young man sometimes seemed to have more secrets than the Marianas Trench, it wasn't as much that Neal was a deep dark well, as he was a torrent, an unstoppable tidal force. He was never still, never quiescent, but always moving forward, his quicksilver mind vaulting all obstacles. But he was loyal to those he called friend, and Peter knew he was included in that small circle.

Neal had risked his life for Peter more than once and had casually offered up a two-million-dollar ransom for his safe return. This sort of betrayal just wasn't in his nature. It had to be part of a larger plan, an insane, mixed up and possibly backfiring plan, but some kind of rationale was behind it. Maybe this was his own fault for failing to pick up on it. Neal's initial words had been, 'He's a spy,' an interesting choice of words that almost certainly had been chosen to parrot Peter's words in their boiler room scam case. They had been Neal's cue to extemporize, claiming a valuable position as an industrial spy, but this time he'd followed up with the words, 'He's an FBI agent,' so Peter couldn't exactly have claimed to be working for a competing mafia family.

The one thing he was sure about was that Neal's presence wasn't a coincidence. The main question left was if Neal was here as an independent operator engaged in a crazy, one-man (or one-and-a-half because Mozzie was sure to be involved) rescue that was no doubt well intentioned - but everyone knew about good intentions. That road to hell might be short, but it almost certainly would not be boring.

The alternative was that this was a sanctioned mission with the full resources of the FBI behind it. Peter allowed that thought to infuse his sore body with hope even while practicality insisted that the troops would already have moved in if backup existed. He stilled all movements, straining to hear anything that might indicate that assistance was on its way. There might have been some shouting in the distance, but the only distinct sounds were rumblings in the plumbing above him and the occasional drip from a leaking pipe.

He had no idea of his present location, having been carried, or more likely unceremoniously dragged, to this sparse room when he was unconscious. He was underground, judging by the lack of natural light; the only source of illumination was one bare light bulb, hanging down centrally from some threadbare wires. He eyed the assembly idly, sure that Neal would have jury-rigged something from it, to dig his way down, explode his way up or dispose of the door lock. Peter merely wanted to get closer to it as the sole source of heat in the room.

He was bitterly cold, having been stripped at some point of all upper clothing except a thin, formerly white, undershirt. The chill had numbed some of the pain in his extremities, but periodic shivers rippled through him like individual seismic events, causing destruction and suffering in their wake. Tensing to mitigate the effects of the shudders failed as a palliative, only serving to emphasize the ache in every muscle.

Gritting his teeth, he bit back a groan as a particularly bad spasm shook him. An incautious breath caught in his throat, strangling there until forced out by a cough which caused a paroxysm of ensuing coughs, driving icicles of agony into every intercostal space, like a hug from the iron maiden. It left him limp and exhausted, damp with sweat which increased his vulnerability to the temperature.

He turned his head to the side, weakly spitting out copper-tasting expectorate, unsure if the blood originated from the damage inside his mouth or was a sign of deeper internal injuries. He had noticed it was getting harder to breathe, each inhalation a struggle, his body demanding faster and deeper breaths to satisfy the need for oxygen. The room was too large for the air supply to be depleting, therefore the cause was either damage to his respiratory system or, possibly, the way he was tied up factored into it. Hazily, he recalled reading that the victims of crucifixion actually died of suffocation.

With a greater sense of urgency, but little confidence, he resumed work on the ties fastening his right wrist, rubbing them against the edge of the chair, stretching them out, trying to make more play for his hand to slip through. Concentrating on the task, he gradually became aware of a change in the sounds outside: more shouting, then sporadic shots increasing in frequency. Hope hammered in his chest at the possibility of long-awaited rescue. Expectation was quickly replaced by doubt. He had participated in many FBI assaults and had internalised the rhythm of the attack and the echo of the guns that were the hallmark of the agency. He had a feeling that the best he could hope for now was an internecine squabble in the mafia.

There was no sound of footsteps approaching, but a slight metallic scratching from the door caught his attention. He was all too familiar with that scrape and snick, and there was only one person who would be picking the lock of his prison. The relief at Neal's imminent presence felt like a vice unclenching from his lungs, like a breath of fresh air that filled him all the way to his toes. That reaction answered any lingering doubts about his instinctive trust in his partner.

The chair was facing away from the door, and his ribs wouldn't allow a twisting motion to check out the entrance, so he sagged back against the chair, not trying to visually verify his assumption that it was Neal, but following his progress by ear.

The door opened with a final defiant creak and light footsteps approached, then paused.

"Oh God...Peter!" It was little more than a whisper, a pained exhalation, yet that slight sound writhed under a staggering weight of emotion.

Peter felt like death warmed over, refrozen, thawed then discarded in the trash, yet he imagined he looked somewhat worse, bruises decorating all visible flesh, at least all that could be seen beneath the dried blood that trickled down from various cuts and abrasions.

He tried to say something reassuring, but he couldn't seem to form the words, coughing weakly as his mouth moved sluggishly around a few syllables.

The footsteps advanced once more, this time unsteadily. Their path veered around his blind side leaving him still incapable of observing his friend.

"Peter. I'm so sorry. It wasn't...I couldn't…" Gentle hands undid the ties on his right hand, carefully lifting the injured and benumbed limb and placing it on Peter's lap. It was a thoughtful act from someone who knew the dangers of being restrained in one position for too long. HIs arms felt leaden, unwieldy, just two stumps loosely attached, at least theoretically, to the rest of his body.

For the first time, he caught a brief glimpse of Neal as he scooted round in front before disappearing again to repeat the process on Peter's other wrist. Finally freed of restraints, the undercover agent shifted position, and that small voluntary contraction of muscle started an unexpected cascade of spasms and cramps that convulsed through his frame.

Peter swallowed the agonised cry that rose in his throat. He struggled to breathe, cracked ribs clamping down on already heavy lungs. He couldn't seem to inhale through the thick coating of blood in his throat and mouth. Gasping like a drowning man breaking the surface, he started slipping sideways off the chair, to be caught by strong arms that eased him to the floor. Neal supported him, cradling his head with a warm hand. Peter knew the younger man was talking, but only through the continuous rumble of the chest he was propped against. He could hear nothing over the roaring in his own ears.

He leaned gratefully against that steady, warm strength until the cramping relaxed to a grinding stiffness, his nerve endings twitched less insistently and the spots in his vision swirled a little less enthusiastically. He would have liked to indulge in that comfort a few minutes longer, but there was no safety in their location. His arms still wouldn't cooperate to push himself upright, but Neal anticipated his wishes and helped, hands gripping Peter's shoulders firmly. He found himself still sprawled on the floor, staring into the ashen, anguished face of his best friend.

Neal was a palimpsest written in code and invisible ink, hiding behind beautiful calligraphy and dazzling colors, but Peter had learned how to make the original appear, teasing it out millimeter by millimeter by the application of blood, sweat and even tears. Yet right now, Neal was an open book, or perhaps a gaping wound, and Peter could see right down into the center of his soul. No masks, no disguises, no misdirections, just raw emotion.

If Peter had ever doubted his value in Neal's life, those uncertainties were forever banished.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was the only thing I could think of. I didn't know…" The words welled up, spilling frantically out of that exposed core, Neal's voice as ragged and tumultuous as his expression. His distress was so visceral that Peter reached out in automatic comfort, resting a still shaking hand on his friend's knee. Neal didn't seem immediately reassured, following the movement with stricken eyes and as Peter looked down he could understand those reservations. Mottled bruising of lurid colors hopscotched down his arm in a trail leading to the still oozing lacerations encircling his wrist.

Deciding that verbal reinforcement was needed, Peter attempted to coordinate his abraded throat, swollen jaw and split lips to produce intelligible speech. "S'okay," he managed thickly.

Blue eyes flashed up to meet his and a complicated algorithm of guilt, relief and gratitude was quickly replaced by determination. "I'll explain it all to you later. But I've got to get you out of here. Can you walk yet?"

Peter had a feeling the truthful answer to that was 'no', but the correct answer was 'yes', so he compromised with a nonverbal thumbs up, backed up by as large a smile as his sore lip would allow. The wisdom of that decision was emphasized by the staccato burst of gunfire.

Ungluing his mouth, Peter waved a finger in an upward direction. "I take it that's not the cavalry." The words came out as a stifled croak, but Neal interpreted it correctly.

"I'm afraid not. At best, it's a rival raiding party. I needed a distraction to get to you, so I told Milo that your presence here meant he was being set up by Abramov, that he was trying to take over his territory. What you're hearing is the resulting battle between the Serbs and the Chechens. Since the Serbs are severely outnumbered, our time to escape is limited."

Neal was the most brilliant improviser Peter have ever met. He could extemporize a plan with the same speed and ingenuity that MacGyver could jerry-rig a bomb from duct tape and toothpicks, saving the day with seconds to spare. However, his explanations of these schemes tended to leave more questions than answers and this was no exception. The urge to pursue a more complete exposition was almost irresistible, but now wasn't the time.

"Help me up."

Peter's legs buckled as he tried to lever himself up, and only Neal's sturdy grip prevented him from ending up nose down on the floor. The simple movement of standing sent a blast of pain through his head and a roil of nausea through his stomach. He closed his eyes to try to prevent the pitch and yaw and all-round circulation of the room.

"Sure we're not on a ship?" he gasped. His right arm was looped round Neal's shoulder, but now he brought up his left to fist in his friend's shirt to give himself greater stability, deciding he wouldn't be too remorseful if he threw up on that unfamiliar fabric.

Proving that they were once more on a similar wavelength, Neal immediately responded. "If you throw up on me, I'm dropping you. We really don't have time for you to find your sealegs." He hitched Peter higher to get a firmer grip. "Come along, Ahab."

At first, their progress was halting, a three-legged race with a pair of stilts and a crutch. However, by the time they had, literally, hit the door, they had got a rhythm going, a staggering lurch that successfully covered the ground.

Neal cast a look up and down the corridor. "Any suggestions which direction?"

"Away from the shooting," Peter offered helpfully. "Towards the docks," he added as an afterthought. The fighting meant that his former escape plan was in tatters since people's movements were now unpredictable.

They were both unarmed, and, if challenged, the best they could hope for is that they would be taken as wounded combatants and allowed to pass, but Neal's very public denouncement made that unlikely. Luckily for them, the lower levels were currently abandoned, and Peter started moving with greater ease as his sore muscles warmed up. If there had been an exit from the basement, it would have been smooth sailing, but since no such convenience existed, their ship was bound to hit some rocky shoals.

There were no elevators out of the basement and it wouldn't have been a sensible choice of transportation if one had been available, but as he gazed up the stairwell that stretched endlessly upward, Peter couldn't help but yearn for some mechanical assistance, although if he could have his choice of technology, he might choose an extremely long and flexible periscope that would reveal not only the presence of any mobsters in the hallway above but also in their entire path of travel.

Neal shared that desire, but had a more practical method of acquiring that information. "I need to reconnoitre." He propped Peter against a wall. "Are you going to be okay if I leave you here?"

Peter waved off his concern. "Be careful." He wanted to say more, to remind his friend that as a self-proclaimed 'Serbian', he would be an immediate target, but he was having problems catching his breath and, rather than start a renewed coughing fit or gasp out his warning in a terrifyingly asthmatic way, he opted for silence. By the time he deemed it safe to open his mouth for anything louder than a wheeze, Neal had scampered up the stairs with an ease Peter envied and was utterly unable to emulate.

He contemplated crawling up the stairs unaided at what would no doubt be the speed of a paraplegic octogenarian, but decided his time was better spent recuperating his strength. Neal had disappeared down the corridor, and Peter waited anxiously, fearing the sound of a shot. No one knew better than he how capable Neal was at taking care of himself, but the odds against them weren't just unfavorable, they were incalculable. The feeding frenzy Neal himself had initiated was still ongoing.

As the seconds ticked over into minutes, Peter's anxiety ratcheted up to worry, and he changed his mind about not climbing the stairs. With a steadying hand on the damp wall and his head twisted awkwardly to afford his one good eye the best view of his path, he started a shaky ascent. His knees wobbled and wavered, threatening to violently reverse the little progress he'd made, and he considered making an undignified but safer climb on his rear end, but he was still doggedly edging upward when Neal returned. He almost knocked Peter down the stairs in his haste to grab him.

"Haven't you got enough injuries without adding a broken neck to the tally?"

Peter sagged gratefully into his friend's strong grip. "I've been climbing steps alone since I was two. I'm not going to Humpty Dumpty on you now."

"You were probably steadier on your feet when you were a toddler than you are now."

"No argument from the elderly and infirm side of this partnership."

"Okay, Hopalong, let's get moving." Suiting action to the word, Neal slung Peter's arm over his shoulder and they started upward. "Milo and his crew are falling back to the main gate," he explained. "That's where we left the vehicles. It leaves the way to the docks clear for us."

Three steps later, he added a little breathlessly, "Soon the Serbs will all be dead or out of here, and we'll replace them on top of the most-wanted poster board."

Peter grunted an acknowledgement, but he had no energy left to comment. He couldn't manage without Neal's assistance, but the pressure it put on his ribs reignited a white flare of pain that stole his breath and energy. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, blind to external danger and trusting Neal to perform that duty.

The stairs had brought them up into the office area of the warehouse. Broken glass and spent shells littered the corridors, a genuine hazard to their stumbling progress. They soon discovered more visceral signs of the fight that had been raging in the area - two dead or dying bodies, blood pooling around them in a lurid halo. A gun lay abandoned inches from an outflung hand, and Neal once more planted Peter against a wall so he could bend down and retrieve the weapon, knowing they needed some form of protection even if it was only used to encourage their enemies to keep their distance.

A quick check showed Neal there were only three bullets left in the magazine, but it was better than nothing. He tucked it into his belt at the back of his pants.

Peter closed his one functioning eye. It was supposed to be a quick blink, but either because it was gummed shut or because of the invisible weights attached to it, it refused to reopen. Even worse, the over-enthusiastic gravity was causing him to slide inexorably down the wall. He nearly surrendered to it - oblivion a welcome release, but his downward descent was mysteriously halted, a voice buzzing an insistent refrain which eventually resolved into the repetition of his name.

"Peter! Come on Peter. Stay with me. I'd carry you, but I don't think your ribs would take it."

With the effort usually reserved for a one-armed pushup, he successfully peeled open an eye. He noted first the two hands fisted into the remains of his shirt, then dragged his gaze up to intense blue eyes limned with fear and brimming with agonized concern.

Peter reached up a weak hand with the intention of resting it reassuringly on Neal's chest, but he had a feeling he missed and patted his friend's face instead. He couldn't be sure, because his vision had blurred into a blue haze, but he was fairly confident that Neal's chest had no nose-like protrusions. The mental image was humorous, but apparently the small chortling snort it surprised from him wasn't comforting, being more reminiscent of a choking walrus - or so the deepening lines of Neal's frown would indicate.

"Nose," he said in explanation, but again it seemed to exacerbate rather than help the situation.

Neal gently wiped something, probably a smear of blood off Peter's face. "I really wish I could give you the opportunity to rest, but if we don't keep moving, we're dead."

The reminder that his CI's life was now also endangered provided the jolt of adrenaline Peter needed to resume his movement. The emptiness of the corridors gave way to the organized chaos of the warehouse, a cavernous space packed with crates and box-laden pallets with the occasional sprinkling of forklift trucks and pallet trucks. The lighting was dim in places, many of the fluorescent light panels flickering or not functioning.

Peter was able to point out the optimal exit and start them in the right direction before his focus once more narrowed down to the effort of forcing the next step from sluggish limbs and sore muscles. The push and flex of Neal's side against his ribs was both comforting and agonizing, but above all necessary. Any energy that hadn't been beaten out of him had long since burned away, and even the fumes were just a memory. Now he was operating on sheer stubborn refusal to recognize his limits, a grim and bloody doggedness. He was deaf to his own grunts and pained wheezing breaths, so it wasn't surprising he was oblivious to the ambient sounds. When Neal manhandled him hastily behind a tower of crates, there was a long interval before he figured out the cause.

"Someone's coming. Quiet!" Neal's hiss in his ear took a moment to register, and then he was conscious of just how loud his gasps for air resonated around them. He turned into Neal's shoulder, resting his forehead lightly on his friend's collarbone as he attempted to muffle his breathing, regulating his intake of oxygen with iron control.

Neal snaked an arm around his back, supporting a significant portion of Peter's weight as they pressed themselves against the sides of the crate, waiting as silently as possible for the thudding feet to pass on the other side. Peter was too disoriented to figure out if they were heading to the docks or returning, so he kept his head down, kept as regular a breathing pattern as possible, and listened to the half-familiar yet totally incomprehensible words that accompanied the passing footsteps.

Silence resumed, yet Neal didn't relax. "That's not a good sign," he muttered, more to himself than his companion, then in explanation he continued, "It looks like they've finished with the Serbs. I don't know if they realize you're gone, or if they have other business on the docks, but I need to check if it's still safe for us."

"Let me...guess." Peter interspersed nearly every word with a gulp of air. "This is...where you… park me in a corner...while you...explore."

"It's the safest way." There was an unstated apology in Neal's tone which Peter waved off.

"We find a...really good hiding place. You go...for help."

"Not going to happen for so many reasons. So save your breath for oxygenating your brain. Let me do the scut work."

He had a point, because Peter couldn't muster the energy to argue, figuring he'd wear his friend down later. He made no complaint when Neal settled him on a low, but not particularly comfortable pallet, shielded on two sides by tall towers of crates, but rallied enough to object to the CI's slightly facetious reminder to, "keep quiet and not wander off."

"Here I was intending to…practice my yodeling...and cross-country skiing skills." His weak attempt at humor earned him a genuine smile, a gentle pat on the back and a promise to return shortly, then once more he watched Neal disappear.

He tried to find a comfortable position for his ribs, but that seemed as likely as him sprouting wings and flying to Pluto, so he settled for resting his back against a supportive piece of plywood and assessed his other injuries. He reached up gingerly to examine the damage to his face. The blood had now congealed, leaving sticky trails curving down from brow, cheekbone and nose to pool around mouth and chin. Hesitant probing suggested a fractured cheekbone, each feather light touch a nauseating stab of pain.

A queasy, clammy feeling washed through him, leaching strength with every beat of his pulse. He felt strangely disconnected from his body, a feather afloat in the breeze, suddenly aware that his teeth were chattering and every muscle shaking in an uncontrollable tremor. His sensory receptors were so confused and overloaded, he couldn't work out if this was due to pain and shock or merely the cold. He decided it was simplest to blame both.

Unfortunately, once the awareness of the chill of his surroundings permeated his consciousness, it was impossible to banish. Glancing down at his clothes, he realized that not only were they skimpy and effectively useless against the cold, but that apparently blood was the new fashion accessory.

He yearned with a deep and ardent fervor for the coat he'd worn that morning, imagining its warm folds enveloping him. There was a mental conflation of the concepts of warmth and safety which made the idea particularly appealing.

Approaching voices shocked him out of a pain-filled mental haze to a greater alertness. Neal had left him in an infrequently travelled nook of the warehouse, and there was no reason for any of the Chechens to be searching in this direction. Had they left a trail? He pictured little drops of bright red blood illuminating their path. His heart cramped beneath his ribs as he prepared heavy limbs and disconcertingly wobbly knees for the hopeless task of renewed flight.

However, although talking continued nearby, it was desultory and its source remained out of sight. Peter, puzzled, hovered on the edge of heaving himself to his feet, until the acrid odor of cheap cigarette smoke finally succeeded in penetrating the clogged blood in his nose. In the aftermath of the deadly factional fight, at least two of the mobsters had snuck away for a smoke and, also attempting to find the most inaccessible spot in the warehouse, had ended up in more or less the same location. Attempting to move would only attract attention, so he was forced to sit, motionless, the cold seeping deeper into already chilled flesh, numbing both body and mind.

He spared a moment's worry for Neal and the possibility that he might inadvertently stumble into a confrontation on his return, but the prospect was too absurd for serious consideration. When he wasn't basking in the spotlight of his own brilliance, the cynosure of all eyes, Neal could be stealth personified. He could certainly ninja past two men without detection.

Peter gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering, but his right knee was jittering uncontrollably and a cough was building up inexorably in his diaphragm. To distract himself, he starting counting all the pallets he could see with his blurry one-eyed vision. It wasn't a high number because he couldn't look around, since every movement of his head set off fresh waves of pain and nausea. How long could a smoke break last? Hopefully, the incipient cancer patients would remember they had jobs and return to their duties.

The urge to cough grew more insistent, his pulse thundering frantically as he restricted his breathing to quash the impulse. All concerns about discovery, however, evaporated into a world of agony as a massive cramp seized his body, squeezing the air out of his chest and constricting his rib cage as if wringing out his lungs. He was unable to bite back the whimper that bubbled up in his throat.

He curled instinctively into a fetal position in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure, but in the process, his center of gravity was irrevocably compromised, and he toppled off the pallet with a dull thud, not even aware enough to catch himself. The impact forced a grunt of agony from his lungs. Winded and exhausted, he attempted in vain to lever himself up as footsteps approached.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Buckle up because this chapter's a long one!

Subterfuge Chapter 8

Neal heard both the thud and the ensuing groan, and his hands stilled, trembling slightly, as he listened to the hurrying footsteps and the exclamations of discovery. Taut and terrified, bracing for the sound of a shot, he resumed his preparations with new urgency.

His reconnoitre had been briskly efficient, a quick glimpse at potential routes and their accompanying obstacles. Peter's lack of mobility restricted their options and necessitated a forethought that Neal typically eschewed, preferring to extemporize as needed. On his return, the smell of smoke and the sound of intermittently murmuring voices had forewarned him of an enemy presence. Needing to check that Peter's position was still secure, he had crept forward and risked a peek, verifying position and numbers. Circumventing them to reach Peter's side, as much as he wished to do so, was an unnecessary risk that could further jeopardize his friend, so he decided that securing their escape route was his first priority. What he had jury-rigged as a safety precaution was now their first line of defense. He might have a gun, but conscience would only allow that to be used as a last resort.

He approached stealthily, pausing a few steps from the final pallet. He steadied himself with a deep breath, then summoned some Serbian phrases to add confusion to his identity. While not totally fluent, he had a serviceable knowledge of the language.

"Who's been smoking around here?" he demanded as he rounded the corner. The tableau was frozen for several seconds with two guilty faces turned towards him and Peter staring up defiantly from the floor. Neal gave a convincing start of surprise, backed two steps waiting to draw both guns in his direction, before promptly reversing course and disappearing behind the pallets, trusting in the animal urge to chase the prey that runs.

Pin-point timing was essential. He needed both men to be following at his heels, but not close enough to anticipate his moves or, more importantly, to get in a shot. Instead of his usual effortless, gliding stride, he blundered noisily like a wounded animal, ensuring an auditory trail that was easy to follow. He ricocheted deliberately into a pallet, making no effort to suppress the fairly genuine cry of pain. He gauged the gap between himself and his pursuers by their noises of exertion and stomping feet. They were too far behind, so he slowed, feigning an ankle injury and offering them a rare tantalizing glimpse of him before limping around the corner to the location of his trap.

His plan suddenly seemed flimsy and fraught with the potential for failure. He stared up at the tall rolling ladder which supported one half of a heavy crate he had earlier maneuvered onto the top of the ladder before carefully wheeling it away from the stack until it was perilously poised over the corridor between pallets. Now, he waited until the last second when the pounding feet were almost on him; then he sprang forward, charging the ladder as if it were a wide receiver going for a touchdown. It felt like hitting one too, except the mass he hit was metallic and cylindrical. However, the wheels moved obligingly, rolling out from under their burden, allowing the crate to start to tumble.

Neal kept moving forward to avoid being hoist under his own petard. There was a scream of fear, silenced by a loud crash, but he didn't stay to check the efficacy of his work. He circled round, reapproaching the scene from his original direction. It was a wise precaution. The men had not been running close enough together to both be caught in the trap. Only the unlucky forerunner had been caught by the descent of the crate, a definite blow to initiative and speed. His fate undetermined, he lay still in the wreckage of broken wood and glass while his erstwhile partner had given up the chase, either due to concern for his companion or, more likely, due to a healthy regard for his own skin.

He'd clearly decided that booby-trapped warehouses were beyond his pay grade. He appeared to be picking his way through the debris in an attempt to find an unbroken bottle of vodka. There was a good chance he intended to find a comfortable corner and get quietly sozzled. However, Neal couldn't take the risk that he would remember Peter, retrace his steps, and exact a little revenge.

Neal appropriated a sturdy-looking piece of board and crept closer. There was too much shattered glass for that strategy to be successful for long, so at the last minute, he abandoned stealth for speed. The mobster only had time to turn in alarm, presenting his face as the perfect target for Neal's baseball-like swing that would have made Peter proud. However, surveying the two prone bodies on the floor, he felt little satisfaction. Violence didn't come naturally to him. He preferred to use his quick wits and agility to escape, but since Peter could barely move, nevermind emulate the more athletic of Neal's exploits, his safety had to be Neal's first priority.

He returned to Peter's side at a flat run, fearing some new misadventure had befallen his friend, His imagination unhelpfully supplied images ranging from death by gunfire, to choking on his own blood due to the internal injuries he'd received, with a brief but bizarre peregrination into death by meteorite strike. To his relief, on his arrival, he discovered that the greatest danger Peter faced appeared to be splinters, as he grimly followed Neal's earlier progress by clinging to the wooden crates around him.

On closer inspection though, there was a glassy, glazed edge to Peter's eyes, and his skin was grey with a sheen of sweat, despite the contradictory shivers that continually vibrated through him. Mentally castigating his lack of foresight, Neal quickly stripped off his own coat, easing Peter gently into it. Peter's shoulders were too broad for a good fit, but the injured man clearly didn't care about the sartorial implications, gratefully relaxing into the borrowed warmth, his eyes slipping shut. When they reopened, they were clearer, as if his mind had rebooted.

"Neal?" It was a sigh, a declaration of trust wrapped up in a question, somehow so familiar that Neal felt a wave of pure affection rise up to choke him.

"I thought I told you to stay where you were." The light remonstrance was mitigated by a careful hand wiping the longer-than-usual, blood-caked hair off Peter's face. It offered him the first clear look at his friend. Peter looked as if he'd been reduced to his essential self - he'd lost weight, leaving his skin tighter around the face with more lines around his eyes, and there were possibly more grey hairs intermixed with the brown.

"I should probably have stuck with the yodeling, huh?"

"Yodeling would have been an improvement," Neal agreed fervently. "Now, since you are conveniently, and somewhat miraculously, on your feet, why don't we take this somewhere else before more of your adoring fans descend."

They emerged from the warehouse into the shipping yard, a vaguely triangular-shaped area generously filled with tidy stacks of shipping containers. Thanks to Neal's nimble and larcenous hands, they offered a possible refuge, but also an obvious one. Besides, Neal didn't believe in hiding places that only had one exit, so they were definitely a last resort, to be utilized only in case of imminent discovery or Peter's imminent collapse. His goal was the docks beyond, with their imposing vessels, each filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of concealed spaces - little nooks and crannies in which to go to ground. Normally they would be guarded, but thanks to the running gun battle, people had either joined the fight or sought their own protection, depending on the strength of their allegiance.

It was as dark as it ever gets near New York City, the moon not deigning to make an appearance to challenge the ubiquitous orange glow in the sky. Neal was grateful for any assistance in concealment, for their progress was slow. Although the threat of impending death was a great motivational tool, the human body could only be pushed so far. Peter made no complaints. In fact, he didn't talk at all, words an unnecessary luxury when every molecule of oxygen was needed to fuel the battle he was waging against pain and exhaustion, especially when the universal constants of gravity and entropy were siding with the enemy.

Breathing was hurting him; Neal could sense it with every flex of Peter's ribcage against his and every restricted inflation of his chest. Neal himself was tiring. He'd been running on adrenaline for at least a week and, despite the weight loss, Peter was no feather to be lugging around the scenic area of the mobster compound. They both needed to go to ground and take a few hours, or preferably days, to recuperate.

Neal steered them through the shadows of the huge metallic monoliths, happy that there was no clear line of sight back to the warehouse. As they worked their way closer to the towering cranes that fringed the docks, he was more concerned about detection from personnel emerging from the ships now that the chances of catching a stray bullet had diminished.

It was noisier nearer the water - the wind whistling through the complex framework of struts and bars, causing loose wires and ropes to slap tunelessly against metal with an arrhythmic off-key insistent clamor, the water lapping restlessly against boats and docks. They paused, both for a respite and to get their bearings in the dubious shelter of the final container, the benefits of protection from the wind negated by the bitter chill of its metal sides.

"You going to park me here while you…?" Peter's hand ventured out and started to describe an airy path, but he winced and withdrew it hastily.

"Nope, I've given it up for Christmas," Neal responded absently, not intending to explain that leaving Peter, even for a short sortee, was no longer an option. "I'm contemplating which of these fine hotels," he nodded towards the ships, "will offer us accommodation for the night."

"I'm not picky, just make sure mine has a hot tub and room service with Kobe beef."

"Isn't that a little sybaritic for your usual tastes?"

"Just looking for a contrast to my cockroach-infested hovel where a lukewarm shower shared with experimental slime molds and half the local insect population was the best I could expect."

"Will you settle for a roof over your head and an energy bar?" Neal bargained.

"I'll settle for companionship that doesn't have six legs."

"You flatter me." Despite his dry tone, Neal took it as a positive sign that Peter was capable of speaking in complete sentences instead of gasping out broken words between wheezing breaths. He judged that his friend had recovered sufficiently to risk their final run for a hideout, and he had plotted out the most promising route that provided plenty of cover and relatively easy access to a ship.

Despite this initial sense of confidence, Neal soon found himself second guessing his second guesses as they slipped through the night trying to become one with the shadows. The elusive promise of temporary haven was so close that Neal's nerves were stretched to snapping. The semi-darkness was curiously oppressive, and the distance shrank with agonizing slowness, leaving them vulnerable in the muted skyglow.

Neal's first choice of boat would have been something small and fast, a speed boat that could have carried them to safety in minutes. It wasn't such an unreasonable request; it wasn't like he was expecting the keys to be left in it; he could easily overcome that obstacle. However, there was a conspicuous dearth of such conveyances in the harbor. He could fit a hundred speedboats in the smallest of the behemoths that cozied up to the docks. Trying to steal one of those would be like trying to flee on the back of a hobbled diplodocus. In the time it would take to warm up the engines and manoeuvre away from their moorings, Abramov's men could board the boat, make themselves a cup of tea, have a soak in a bath to remove the accumulated grime of a long day of crime, and still have time to search the cargo ship from stem to stern.

If he had been alone, Neal would have been in a good position to triumph in a game of hide and seek. He had a working familiarity with cargo ships. They were a slow but convenient method of transportation around the world - uncrowded, out of the public eye and less convention bound than aircraft. He had travelled as both passenger and crew, and the length of passage had given him boundless opportunities to satisfy his curiosity and explore.

Peter's presence and lack of mobility changed the stakes. There was no time for a leisurely exploration of potential hiding places. The urgency of their situation was reinforced as Peter stumbled, pushing Neal away as he doubled over, retching, although his abused stomach brought up only bile. He gained control after a minute and straightened up slowly, but his breath was harsh, rattling deep in his chest.

Neal stepped closer ready to catch him if he collapsed. He was reaching out a supportive hand when his eyes were drawn to activity behind Peter's shoulder and he froze. "Don't move," he instructed his friend softly. "We have company."

Like vengeful ants boiling out of a disturbed anthill, the Chechen mobsters were stampeding from the line of shipping containers in the warehouse yard onto the wharf. They were still a considerable distance away - a testament to how far Peter and Neal had travelled. The lack of illumination and their dark clothing had ensured that the two fugitives had so far gone unnoticed, but Neal knew how quickly movement could catch the eye.

Their imminent discovery collapsed all possibility of choice, narrowing it to the nearest haven. They were twenty yards away from a pier and, once there, the docked container ship would conceal them from view, hopefully allowing them to board unnoticed.

Peter's body was mostly shielding Neal, so he shuffled closer. "When I say so, take a small and slow step to your left." In a weird parody of a dance, they coordinated a series of steady, barely perceptible movements that flowed with the shifting shadows until they reached the stanchion of a gantry crane, halfway to their ultimate destination.

Neal couldn't see how focused Peter's eyes were in the semi-dark, but they were fixed on him with determination and an absolute trust which caused his stomach to simultaneously swoop and soar. He was used to waltzing through life on a wing, a prayer and a smile to charm all comers. But now, with danger breathing its halitosis-laden breath down their necks, an overwhelming sense of responsibility lanced through his veins, a blistering, razor-sharp realization that both lacerated and cauterized. He would do absolutely anything to ensure Peter's safe return.

A glance down the wharf showed him the gunmen much closer, but now the crane offered partial cover, so he hoped their progress could accelerate. It depended on Peter's waning resilience. He could feel the tremors that still coursed through the agent as if they vibrated through the air even though he was inches away. "Just a little further," Neal murmured encouragingly, and not altogether truthfully.

Peter inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, the minimalism of the gesture due possibly to the dangers of attracting attention, but more likely because of his need to conserve every scrap of energy he dredged up and manufactured from sheer stubbornness. Peter was a natural-born leader, but Neal had never been more grateful that this was a competence rather than ego-driven characteristic and that the agent knew the right time to cede control to others. That flexibility, the generous give and take, were a vital part of the success of their partnership.

Neal maneuvered them carefully behind the enormous ship, not allowing himself to make the mistake of hurrying until they were behind that comfortable bulk. However, once there, he urged Peter into a run, hating the necessity, knowing he was inflicting pain. The dank side of the boat rose to imposing heights on their left as they lurched onwards, along what seemed to be an interminable length, until they finally reached the small, white metallic steps that stretched up parallel to the ship.

The boat was almost fully loaded, so it was sitting low in the water, which meant fewer stairs to climb, and there were railings on both sides, but the sheer magnitude of the ascent for an injured man was daunting. The difficulties were exacerbated by both the steepness of the steps and their narrowness. There was no way the two men could fit side by side, which left Neal the options of leading the way or bringing up the rear. He could offer far more assistance from behind, but that would mean Peter would be vulnerable to attack at the top if the stairway happened to be guarded.

Angry shouts were now clearly audible from the wharf, terrifyingly close, emphasizing that there was no time for indecision; they were out of options. They crossed the walkway at the bottom of the stairs, then Neal unwrapped Peter's arm from his shoulder, placing it on the hand-rail.

"Climb," he whispered, a small push reinforcing his words. He chivvied Peter into motion, steadying him as he stumbled on the unfamiliar steps. If the older man could see at all in the half-light with only one functioning eye, he would certainly lack any depth perception, so Neal attempted to guide from behind, providing the eponymous immovable object to prevent gravity from exerting its inevitable downward force on Peter's wavering form. As their progress faltered, coaxing degenerated into coercion and finally into outright bullying.

Abused muscles groaned and lungs burned. Neal suspected that there was more oxygen available on top of Everest than there was clambering up this grueling Jacob's ladder. A flicker of movement near the joining of the wharf and dock temporarily froze him in place, eyes straining in the gloom, heart hammering. Without his exhortations, and perhaps sensing danger, Peter also stilled above him, and Neal pressed in close to discourage any type of renewed motion. He was fairly sure that if they were still, no one would be able to see them at that distance without the aid of a flashlight, since they were half concealed by the steps and their dark clothes blended in with the dull steel of the hull. However, if they were spotted, they were unprotected, cardboard ducks in a shooting gallery.

Leaning heavily against Peter, Neal could feel every shiver that wracked the agent's exhausted muscles, and it was enough to make him shake in sympathetic resonance. He just hoped their combined tremors didn't start the steps vibrating. The frantic hammering of metal on metal like a demented steampunk woodpecker would certainly reveal their presence. Neal tightened his grip on his friend, trying to convey both the continued need for silence and his willingness to take the brunt of Peter's weight.

A figure prowled a little up the pier, paused, then retraced his steps, the silhouette of a large gun clear for a second before he disappeared further up the wharf. Neal guessed that the man, either on his own initiative or under orders, was an advanced scout checking out possible locations of the two fugitives. Subsequent searches would be more thorough. They needed to find a secure hiding place before that happened.

With a squeeze to Peter's shoulder, Neal indicated that they should push on. The brief, enforced rest had restored an iota of energy, and they managed the final dozen steps with a minimum of difficulty, the prospect of conquering the summit almost invigorating. They staggered onto the ship, and Peter's legs collapsed like spaghetti introduced to hot water. Neal was barely able to lower him to the deck, and once he'd deposited him there, sitting seemed like a good idea, so he joined the older man slumped against the bulwark.

Peter's eyes were closed, and Neal couldn't tell if his partner was clinging on to consciousness or not. He would dearly love to emulate that restful pose, but neither instinct not training would allow premature relaxation. He automatically began to assess his surroundings, not that there was much variety to survey. Containers piled precariously high sprouted out of the center of the deck like tightly packed, boxy skyscrapers. To find their intended destination, they would have to work their way around the periphery of the boat. In fact, they should start moving now...he'd get right on that...just as soon as he could persuade his limbs of the necessity of the plan.

In the end, it was the cold seeping up from the metal that convinced him to move. Peter was wearing his coat, and the icy night air was rapidly freezing the sweat he'd worked up. Hypothermia was a real possibility if they didn't get under cover.

Moving with respectful deference to sore muscles, he knelt beside Peter, laying a careful hand on his shoulder. "Hey partner. You still with me?"

An eye opened and regarded him balefully. "If 'with you' includes a bonus tropical island, then yes."

Neal offered an appreciative smile. "Think of this as a necessary precursor. This is the cruise ship heading for the tropics. Let me escort you to our cabin."

"Neal…" Peter started to speak, but appeared to change his mind. He straightened gingerly, clearly suppressing a wince as the pressure shifted on his ribs. Somehow, in the process of sitting up, he wrapped the mantle of Special Agent Burke around him. Despite his bloodied and bruised face, he stared into Neal's eyes with composure and authority.

Despite a certain sense of relief at the resilience shown, Neal felt a sinking sensation, sure he wasn't going to enjoy what came next.

"Ok, Neal. We'll find a safe place of shelter, and I'll be safely tucked away. But then you're going to leave to find a phone. Ah!" He held up a commanding finger for silence as Neal attempted to speak. ""Don't interrupt, just listen."

As Neal subsided obediently, Peter continued with renewed urgency. "I know it goes against the grain, and I appreciate your loyalty. However, this is bigger than the both of us. I've discovered evidence of a possible terrorist attack, a threat to New York's water supply. We're talking thousands of lives, maybe hundreds of thousands; I don't really understand the chemistry." As he continued to speak, his voice thinned, drying out and racing a coughing fit to the end of the sentence.

Neal tried to take advantage of the paroxysm to intersperse a few words of his own, but as if predicting his intent by some mysterious divination, the finger was lifted once more, and Neal again quieted, unwilling to cause further agitation. Sensing compliance, the finger retreated, then the whole hand reached out blindly, grabbing Neal by his borrowed sweater and tugging him forward with waning strength.

With a stab of visceral horror, Neal flashed back to the NOVA corporation and Peter dying on the floor while insisting Neal rescue a murderer even if it jeopardized the agent's own survival. Peter wore the same expression of implacable insistence and his tone of voice, too, was identical. "You have to do this...get to a telephone...promise."

Trying not to exacerbate his friend's injuries by jostling him, Neal fumbled in his pocket. Gently, he disentangled himself from Peter's grasp, then, holding the agent's hand between both of his, he pressed the object into Peter's palm.

Peter gazed at it uncomprehendingly for several seconds then he laughed out loud, a rasping sound like the rusty hinges of a door that has remained shut for too long. "You couldn't have told me you had this earlier?"

"You shushed me...twice," Neal pointed out self-righteously.

"No I...Well maybe I did, like in the last minute, but I mean you couldn't have started out with, 'Peter, I've come to rescue you and I have a phone'?"

"Somehow, I was too busy dodging bullets and bad guys to observe the social niceties. Moreover, I didn't want to call in the cavalry until I got you into a position of safety. I've learned my lesson on that," he added a little bitterly. "Not everybody comes to the rescue as...efficiently as you."

Peter's finger reached out again, this time tracing the outline of Neal's black eye without actually touching. "I'm sorry." He seemed to see considerately more that just the remnants of a bruise.

Neal summoned up a jaunty grin. "Lastly, I've cut my anklet, which means I've lost any credibility I used to have with the department. I don't think a phone call from me would have the desired result."

The agent shook his head, words finally deserting him, and his CI had never been so happy to see that familiar expression of fond exasperation. "I'll fix this," Peter said at last. "If we foil a terrorist plot, not only will that transgression be forgiven, but you might get another shot at a commutation hearing."

"I would still suggest that _you_ make the phone call. But before that, let's move to the other side of the boat, so we can't be seen by anyone else coming up the steps."

Despite his obvious impatience to make the call, Peter didn't argue with that logic, and they limped slowly round the boat without incident, halting at a place Neal deemed relatively secure and which also offered him an observation point of the wharf. He helped Peter to settle comfortably again, then watched him dial, fingers fumbling awkwardly on the small numbers of the burner phone.

Peter's right arm was braced around his ribs as if holding himself together, and the left hand that held the phone sank appreciatively lower with every moment it supported the negligible weight. Neal reached up a steadying hand, and Peter threw him a grateful smile, inclining his head in invitation and turning the phone slightly so that, by leaning his head in close, Neal could also hear the conversation.

"Assistant Director Tomkins." Even over a tinny phone line, the voice was authoritative with a hard interrogative tone.

Peter unconsciously straightened, responding automatically to the chain of command. "Assistant Director, this is Peter Burke."

"Burke. You missed your usual check in. We were starting to get concerned."

"Your concerns are justified. My cover has been blown." Neal winced slightly at that blunt announcement, but Peter didn't seem to notice, merely clearing his throat in the vague belief that it would bolster his fading voice. "More importantly, I believe you were correct about an imminent terrorist attack."

Neal missed Tomkins' response in his concern for his partner. Peter was putting every scrap of effort into sounding normal, leaving no energy left over for looking normal. The dim light didn't conceal the creased lines of pain on his face or the white gleam of clenched knuckles. But those last-ditch attempts to regulate his speech were failing. Little fissures of strain were rapidly widening into deep crevices, longer pauses between words and even syllables and articulation deteriorating into slurred digraphs.

As much as Neal wanted to offer more than silent moral support, there was nothing he could do. He understood how important it was for Peter to complete this difficult assignment and report to his handler.

"Abramov assisted me...in accessing the Russian warehouse. I found twelve barrels of...Trichlorasodimethylamine."

"I'm familiar with it - nasty stuff. Go on."

The mention of the Chechen mob bosses name revitalised Neal's attention as he realised that neither he nor Peter alone grasped the entire picture. They each held pieces of the puzzle and put together they might reveal a good portion of the danger they were facing.

"Warehouse...17"

"Can you confirm Abramov's intentions?"

Neal knew the answer to that and, sensing Peter was still in the dark, he shook his head frantically at him to convey the message, adding in a throat-cutting gesture when Peter threw him a quizzical glance.

"Negative...cannot confirm. Abramov is ..." His voice dried out, his entire body tensing as he fought the ensuing cough, attempting to breathe through the pain. He pushed the phone towards Neal with a prompting nod.

Neal intended to relate the depth of Abramov's iniquity, but he didn't get further than, "Assistant Director…" when he was cut off with a sharp, "Who's this?"

Long ingrained instincts, rather than any particular suspicion, kept him from identifying himself. "I'm helping Agent Burke," he replied vaguely.

"Put Burke back on, now!"

"I'm sorry, Sir. Agent Burke is injured and unable to talk right now. He needs hospital treatment immediately, so please get back up here as soon as possible."

"I'm sending in a SWAT team. Keep your heads down and don't get caught in the crossfire." There was a short pause. "It'll help if we know where you're hiding yourselves."

There was something about the word 'hide', and a forced casualness to the suggestion that sent warning signals prickling down the spine of an experienced dissembler like Neal.

"We're safe," he responded, the decision to lie instantaneous, falling from his lips with no premeditation. "We're at the end of Pier 3. There's a small platform underneath it, just above the water. No one will find us here."

"Okay, hold tight. We should be there in 20 minutes."

With a vague noise of assent, Neal closed the connection. He'd already turned off the ringer and now he held the phone warm between two palms as he looked across at Peter to see if he'd caught the final byplay. A frown of disquiet indicated that he had.

"What's going on?" It was a genuine request for enlightenment, no criticism or distrust encroaching on the tone.

Before Neal could reply, the phone vibrated in his hands, a noiseless buzz that nevertheless sounded an alarm since it could easily have given away their position. He had no intention of answering it, knowing only one person could be calling. He crawled over to a hawsehole that offered him a bird's-eye view of the top half of the wharf and the adjacent pier.

The coarse fiber of a rope scratched his cheek, and the smell of tar filled his nostrils, but neither sensation registered as he gazed down at the scurrying of the well-armed ants on the ground. Their movements were at first haphazard, searching the obvious hiding places in a random fashion that suggested that Abramov had shouted, "Find them," without actually coordinating the parameters of the hunt. Since the first person to find them could reasonably expect to meet a small metal projectile heading in the opposite direction, the searching was proceeding mostly in a desultory manner.

As he watched, absently analyzing the frantic milling for a pattern that would indicate how much time they could expect to remain undetected, the situation abruptly changed. Noise from below was snatched away by the wind, but he thought he heard a whistle. Certainly there had been some type of signal as everybody in the vicinity converged around a central figure whom he believed was Maskhadov. There was a brief exchange, which appeared to offer a cohesive strategy, since the mob turned and advanced down Pier 3.

There was a terrifying, inexorable purposefulness to their direction that meant their destination was no longer a matter of random speculation. In the light of the recent telephone contact, only one conclusion could be drawn from this deliberate military precision, and that meaning and its consequences seeped into his awareness as a chill trickle of horror which held him paralysed as he watched the drama unfold below.

Several gunmen formed a loose line reminiscent of a firing squad five yards from the end of the pier. If a warning was shouted, it never reached Neal's ears, but the withering hail of fire spoke eloquently of their intent. Some type of suppression device kept the noise to the dull popping of a far-off fireworks display, but even at a distance, the violence was conveyed by the destruction of the quay. Large splinters flew, followed by chips and chunks of concrete, from the underlying structure, filling the air with a lethal barrage of shrapnel as the target area churned and wallowed in its death throes.

Had they indeed sought shelter under the pier, they would have been torn to shreds. Neal hoped that the mob would be satisfied with the visible carnage and not check for bodies that presumably would have sunk into the bay. That fervent, if overly optimistic, hope led to another realization - his phone was compromised and could not only lead to their position, but also reveal that they were unharmed. In a panic of motion, he yanked the phone from his pocket, juggling it in his haste to dispose of it. Lacking a method that would destroy it to his satisfaction, he pushed it out the hawsehole, watching it tumble over before disappearing from view. He trusted that it would be more or less invisible in the dim light and that all eyes were mesmerized by the ongoing destruction on the docks.

Peter was regarding him, his one good eye wide and apprehensive, so he crawled back to sit next to him. "They destroyed the end of Pier 3," was all he said, knowing that the agent was quite capable of inferring the ramifications of the statement. The implications were unmistakable, and Peter had clearly reached them, but acceptance was another matter.

He shook his head automatically, emphatically, but the fervor of the gesture quickly abated as it exacerbated his nausea. "There has to be an explanation," he insisted staunchly. "Tomkins wouldn't...his phone must be bugged."

"Are you telling me that at his level of the FBI, there aren't precautions against that?"

"It can't be Tomkins," Peter continued to protest. "He wouldn't work with terrorists. It's impossible. His brother was killed in 9/11."

Neal didn't push the issue. His experiences with the FBI left him less than confident in the integrity and probity of...well, everyone who wasn't Peter. It was possible that Mozzie had influenced his perspective on that topic. However, he knew Peter's dedication and loyalty to the organisation, so merely said diplomatically, "I think we have to assume that Abramov got his information from somewhere in the FBI and that, for now, we're on our own. We can't afford to trust anyone."

"We need to get a message to our own people."

"Even if I had a way to contact them...which I don't anymore, they can't take on Abramov and his men all by themselves. They would have to go through the chain of command and we don't know where it's compromised." Neal was also not sure if, after cutting his anklet, he was persona non grata in the department.

Peter was too exhausted to continue the argument, his expression vulnerable and tired as he edged his jaw around as if he had a loose tooth in there. "So what's the plan?"

"Remember the luxury accommodation I promised you? Let's find it before you turn into an FBIcicle."

Peter seemed unable to regain his feet, his limbs wobbling with uncoordinated weakness. There was no way that Neal could lift 6 ft 2 of FBI agent by himself.

'You can't outrun the bad guys, then keel over just before reaching safety."

"Safety?" Peter managed to cram a remarkable quantity of skepticism into the one word.

"OK, relative safety, or perhaps less danger," Neal amended before settling on, "Shelter anyway."

"You make it sound so enticing. How could I refuse your generous offer?"

"And I thought you were waiting for an engraved invitation."

"Nothing that formal. I just need a map with 'up' marked on it." After a flurry of flailing limbs and heaving efforts, they were both on their feet, albeit unsteadily. It was enough to get them to their destination, or at least to the ten steps that led up to their objective.

Peter stared at the squat, orange object in amazement. "What is that?"

"That, my friend, is our accommodation for the night - a lifeboat."

"Aren't lifeboats more…" One hand described a flatter shape.

"Oh, Peter. You've been watching Titanic again."

Peter didn't deny the accusation. "El made me." The wistfulness in his voice belied the sentiment. "I think it was revenge for the Valentine's fiasco."

Neal winced. "Not your finest hour. Anyway, you'll be glad to know that progress has been made in the last hundred years. This is a freefall lifeboat, and they're required by law on freighters this size because they can sink so rapidly. Not only does it have the supplies we need, but if they come knocking at our door, then, in theory, we can launch the boat and slip away."

He decided not to mention that that plan was an absolute last resort since, if Peter did indeed have cracked or broken ribs, the impact of the boat hitting the water could quite likely kill him, the sharp edges of bones shredding internal organs. However, it was the closest Neal could come to an exit strategy. He hauled Peter up the steps to the door of the boat and wasn't surprised to find it unlocked since, in an emergency, it would need to be quickly accessible.

It was hard to manoeuvre in the darkness of the boat, especially considering the appreciable downward angle in which the boat was positioned on the slip rails. The backward-facing seats on the sides of the aisle provided sufficient support to enable them to work their way to the front of the boat. When they were sufficiently deep that a cursory glance inside wouldn't reveal their presence, he helped Peter lie down across a row of seats, the downward angle now working in their favor to anchor him in position.

The small, salt-encrusted windows of the boat let in almost none of the already dim light from outside, and Peter's recumbent body was no more than a darker mass among the shadows. Guilty relief curdled inside, both because he could no longer see the angry contusions and the more recent bruises, the blood still in the process of seeping into the skin, but also because in the dark, he didn't have to worry about Peter reading his expression and divining the confusing mixture of guilt and fear that had settled in his stomach like an ill-digested meal.

"I'm going to get some supplies," he muttered, hoping his voice wouldn't betray what his face now couldn't. There was a grunt that he chose to interpret as assent rather than pain, so he groped his way back to the door, where it was the work of seconds to lock it and barricade it for good measure. At the very least, it would buy them time, and perhaps some muscle-bound thug with more biceps than brains might assume they couldn't be inside since entry was blocked.

Hoping the design of the boat was similar to those he was familiar with, Neal groped his way to the supply lockers. He was gratified to find them where he expected and fully stocked. He located everything by touch, shapes and textures revealing themselves under his fingers. He had a pencil flashlight but only used it for a split second to verify the identity of some pills, since the slightest flash might reveal their intrusion to anyone glancing in their direction.

He needed to check the severity of Peter's injuries as best he could in the dark conditions, but the intervening seats made access impossible, and he had to cajole Peter back into an upright position with encouragement and bribes of painkillers and nourishment. He pressed an open bottle of water into Peter's hand, transferring the ibuprofen carefully.

"Take it easy. I know you must be thirsty, but small sips are best for now." Peter didn't respond, but Neal could feel rather than see the small nod of acknowledgment. "You probably haven't eaten much," he hurriedly continued. "I'm sorry I can't offer you a devilled ham sandwich, but an energy bar should help you."

Peter huffed a small laugh. "Eating anything right now would nullify the purpose of those small sips of water, and these quarters are a little close for possibly projectile consequences. Besides, I don't think my ribs could take it."

"Are your ribs actually broken?"

For a long moment there was no response, then, "I'm guessing cracked."

Trying to sound more confident than he felt, Neal said, "I need to check you out." Sensing the imminent refusal, he pressed on, explaining the logistics of launching the lifeboat. He felt rather than saw Peter shrug.

"When it comes down to the certainty of being perforated by a hail of bullets or the chance of skewering myself on a loose rib, I know which I'd choose. It would also give you a better chance of survival."

Neal made a vague noise which he hoped would be taken as assent, but apparently only aroused suspicion, since Peter's voice became sharp and authoritative. "If, at any point, you have the opportunity to safely get out of here, you will take it and go for help. Is that understood?"

The darkness prevented Peter from reading the mutinous refusal that must have been printed in capital letters across his face. Neal considered replying with another noncommittal grunt that was as close as he could get to acquiescence while his mind interpreted it as, "Heck no, I'd rather read Twilight aloud in the middle of the White Collar unit while eating devilled ham and wearing stripes, plaid and paisley."

He could deliver an outright lie by reassuring Peter that he would do a runner at the earliest opportunity, but that violated his self-imposed policy of qualified honesty with his friend, so in the end, he went with his favorite option of misdirection. "I certainly have no intention of going anywhere until I know you aren't bleeding out internally, so let's check you out." It was a deft tactic, allowing Neal to avoid committing to a plan he couldn't even consider, while maneuvering Peter into accepting his medical ministrations.

The dark was now a mixed blessing; it still spared him the sight of Peter's injuries, but it also denied him the diagnostic potential of his eyes. Instead, he had to rely on his sense of touch. He kept it as light as possible, fingertips tracing over skin as if reading braille, It wasn't hard to distinguish the heat and swelling of deep palpable bruises, and he skimmed carefully over the stickiness of multiple lacerations. For the most part, Peter tolerated it stoically, holding himself very still, the anticipation of further pain a clear tension in every muscle, but the hitch of his breathing betrayed the misery he was experiencing, and as Neal probed an especially tender area, a hand shot out, catching his wrist.

Neal stilled, immediately wanting to apologize, but he had a feeling that if he started he wouldn't be able to stop, a flood of justifications and regrets pent up behind a dam of exigencies. This wasn't the time. Peter deserved a thorough explanation, but he needed rest more.

Peter's grip loosed by increments until it no longer restrained, but instead offered a shared connection, a silent communication. Neal wanted to relax into the freely offered comfort, but as tempting as it was, he couldn't afford to relax his vigilance. Responsibility itched insistently along his spine.

"Peter…" he said helplessly, reluctant to break the connection and utterly unable to continue without his friend's express permission.

Peter released his wrist with a final pat of reassurance. "Go ahead, prod away." When Neal hesitated, he added more encouragingly, "Really, you're doing fine. You've got quite a Florence Nightingale touch. I shouldn't be surprised by the revelation of another skill in your considerable repertoire, but this seems outside your usual range of expertise. When did you learn first aid?"

Sensing that Peter was looking for distraction, Neal obliged. "Medical knowledge is more tied to the life of con artist than you might think," he responded absently. "A visit to the hospital isn't always an option when you're being pursued by the FBI."

At Peter's quick intake of breath, the younger man stilled again, thinking he had encroached on another intensely sensitive area before realizing that it was his words that had upset his friend, that he had revealed a nugget of information Peter neither expected or wanted.

"Did I ever...was there ever a time you…"

Although Neal couldn't see exactly where Peter was heading with that disjointed sentence, the direction was clear, and so he tried to cut him off before he could arrive at a conclusion that would cause distress for them both. "It was mostly a precaution, a form of self-sufficiency that Mozzie insisted on. You know how paranoid he is."

Peter's inherent stubbornness persevered. "So, there was never a time these skills became necessary?"

Neal scooped through grains of memories, sieving out one that was perfect for the situation. "Well, there was a time." He chuckled, a genuine laugh, more in anticipation of Peter's reaction than because of the inherent humor of the memory. "None of us were ever what you might call wilderness survivalists or even mildly rural survivalists. One time, I'll leave you to guess which case we were working on, but it involved surveillance on an old manor in the middle of the countryside. Mozzie not only didn't recognize poison ivy, he didn't even recognize the symptoms and so he...uh...relieved himself, without cleaning the plant oil off his hands. Believe me, that was a time we were happy for some self-administered first-aid."

Any other time, Peter would have recognised the anecdote for the diversion it was, but for once he didn't pursue the issue, and Neal quickly followed up his advantage. Finishing his palpating, he was reassured that the FBI agent had been correct in his self-assessment. "You're right, nothing broken, but possible cracks and severe bruising. Normally, wrapping would be contraindicated because of the possibility of pneumonia, but given the likelihood of strenuous activity, I think the circumstances warrant it."

"I'd love to think I'm going to live long enough to have the opportunity to develop pneumonia."

The practice of wrapping was a great deal harder than the theory. The confines of the seats and the downward slope of the floor were not conducive to maintaining appropriate tension on the bandage. If he hadn't been worried about causing further injury, it would have almost been comedic, a bumbling effort of bumping elbows and noses. Peter bore it quietly and, at first, Neal thought it was because he was too tired to comment, but soon realized Neal's less-than-suave efforts were causing the agent amusement. In the end, the wrap was probably too loose, but he hoped to have time to fix it in the morning when he could at least see what he was doing.

"I was wrong, Florence Nightingale does not have to fear for her job," Peter teased him tiredly.

Neal knew better than to swallow the bait, no matter how innocently it was dangled in front of him, but he couldn't resist the normality of a quick chomp at the verbal offering. "Since she's dead, I don't think it's a matter of great concern."

"She's dead? Was she under your medical care? Maybe you should stick with self-inflicted poison ivy."

"Hey, a little more respect for my medical skills, since I'm the only thing between you and gangrenous onychocryptosis."

There was a pause as Peter tried to figure out that reference. Failing, he capitulated. "That sounds sufficiently alarming. I bow to your superior nursing competence, Clara."

Deciding not to reveal that he'd just threatened Peter with an ingrowing toenail, Neal doused a cloth with some water and, without too much groping, successfully located Peter's hand and transferred the wet rag. "Wipe your face with this, and maybe in the morning you'll look a little less like a Friday the 13th reject."

Peter presumably followed directions and then disposed of the soiled cloth somewhere on the floor. "I'm sure that's much improved, and now I just look like the slowest runner in a zombie flick." He was attempting to sound unperturbed, but his voice attenuated as the sentence progressed, betraying his deteriorating condition.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Neal was relieved that his friend hadn't yet introduced the topic of his apparent betrayal. He was in no hurry to explain, and though his actions had been based on sound reasoning, he felt the need to atone for their consequences.

'Actually, there is." Peter eased himself gingerly into a more recumbent position on the seats. "Could you tell the bad guys out there that I need a nap and could they come back in the morning?"

"I'll try to remember to mention it while we throw back a cold one," Neal promised.

"Could you turn on the heat while you do it?"

"The thermostat is a little out of my reach, but I can accomplish the equivalent. Hold on." Neal again departed to explore the supply compartments of the lifeboat. It would be too hard to wrestle Peter into a thermal protective aid, although that would offer the most warmth, so he settled for several space blankets, draping the majority of them over his friend, while reserving two for himself.

Peter seemed more unconscious than asleep; it was only his stentorian breathing, courtesy of a blood-clotted nose, that confirmed his status as being on the animated side of a corpse. The sound was actually reassuring, but Neal still slid his fingers over his friend's arm until they rested over the pulse, relieved to find it steady in sleep, a repetitive reminder that Peter had survived, a condition that he fully intended to cultivate. He then settled himself down to keep watch through the rest of the night.

It was an excellent theory, but in the quietness, the adrenaline that had been fending off his exhaustion finally dissipated. He couldn't summon up the energy for even a mild panic attack; the best he could manage was a low-grade apprehension. His eyelids sank under the leaden weight that tried to slam them shut, and he dozed in brief, guilty interludes. The result was a strange lurching of time as it congealed in thick clots then spurted rapidly through his fingers.

The sky started lightening in similar increments, and it seemed that the Fates were, if not smiling down, at least throwing them a cursory wave of acknowledgment, because throughout the long night, they remained undisturbed.

In the uncertain light of dawn, the situation seemed surreal, a curious, frozen isolation within a hive of activity. They were in Schrodinger's Lifeboat, simultaneously dead and alive and no one was opening the boat and it was entirely possible that Neal was slightly delirious from stress and lack of sleep. However, if he had to be the cat in this scenario, he'd like to have nine lives, because he was probably going to need every one.

A low groan emanating from beneath the pile of silver blankets reminded him that he wasn't the only occupant that could qualify for feline status. Peter had survived a daunting ordeal, and now it was Neal's responsibility to keep them both safe, to ensure that Peter returned to El.

Another earthquake rolled through the mound of blankets, and, just as Neal was about to manoeuvre to try for a glimpse of his buried friend, a tousled head emerged and said hoarsely and succinctly, "Ow!"

Neal's immediate reaction was the guilty thought that he couldn't take Peter home to El looking like that. Brown stale blood dappled the collar of the tattered shirt, while the bruises on his face had grown larger and more vivid, the swelling tightening the flesh and accentuating the purple colors. It was a painful Jackson Pollock on a 3D canvas.

Peter had made the effort to sit up, but the torment of exercising unused, abused muscles discouraged the continuation of the movement, and he subsided limply. Neal leaned over from the seats in front. "Breakfast," he said brightly, offering two painkillers.

One eye reopened sufficiently to regard him balefully, "thbttcfff."

It was unclear whether it was the swollen lip or the harshness of the voice that contributed most to the unintelligibility of the utterance, but Neal didn't need words to interpret his friend's meaning. If they gave out degrees for such things, he would have a PhD in reading Peter.

At first, it had been a matter of survival, to learn as much as he could about the agent chasing him, searching for vulnerabilities, pressure points, assessing the possibilities of bribery and even blackmail. Finding none, he'd been intrigued, the challenge new and unexpected. That interest was reciprocated, and they'd circled each other like two stars in an ever-decreasing orbit until collision was inevitable.

After being paroled into Peter's custody, and with the threat of reimprisonment hanging over him, Neal had initially believed that implanting himself in his new partner's good graces offered the best chance of staying relatively free, but as he grew more secure, he started prodding, needling, testing his boundaries as he attempted to delve deeper into what made the FBI agent tick.

Somewhat to his surprise, he found that Peter was a fundamentally decent man; the principled exterior was matched by an equally genuine interior, like a reliable stick of rock, he read integrity all the way through.

Their interests didn't always align, but Neal valued that consistent authenticity and learned to fully place his trust in another for the first time in his turbulent life. Somehow, Peter had crept under his skin and stamped himself there like an invisible tattoo.

Neal also discovered his friend's idiosyncracies - which tie was considered lucky for which occasion, how he preferred doing the crossword to the SuDoku, and exactly how he liked his coffee in the morning. An uncaffeinated Agent Burke would zero in on the coffee pot as if it had broken multiple laws, and it was familiarity with that habit that enabled Neal to decypher the garbled sentence.

"Contrary to your belief, CPR does not stand for 'coffee provides resuscitation'. It appears that the coffee machine is out of commission, and the best I can offer is delicious ibuprofen-laced water."

Peter flexed his hands, shifting his limbs gingerly before curling into a sitting position. Perversely, Neal would have been reassured if the manoeuvre had been accompanied by complaints or exclamations of discomfort. Instead, it was accomplished in a grim, painful, almost ominous, silence, sweat beading on the agent's forehead despite the chill of the morning air.

Subdued, and regretting his earlier flippant attitude, Neal quietly handed over the pills and water, following them up with an energy bar. "You must eat something to settle your stomach and keep your strength up," he advised somberly.

Peter nodded and nibbled grudgingly at the bar, his appetite still in abeyance. Normally, the companionship between them was comfortable and natural, filled with good-natured banter. Friendly competition imbued such interactions with an edge that entertained and challenged them both.

Despite Mozzie's acerbic observation that they frequently sounded like an old married couple, they were more like siblings, complete with the requisite rivalry. Peter was his big brother, sometimes annoyingly overbearing and sanctimonious, but, above all, he was protective - ready and willing to extricate Neal from precarious predicaments often of his own making. Neal valued that familial connection and the sense of security that was freely offered.

However, Neal wasn't enjoying that accustomed sense of ease, and it wasn't the external danger that left him feeling on edge. He crossed his arms defensively and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, knees bent up against his chest. Peter had said nothing that would cause the lost and untethered sensation, but there was still tension, and he had no problems recognizing the elephant in the lifeboat. What he wasn't expecting was the elephant to become very real, and to waltz across in a pink tutu and stomp on him.

"So, why did you announce to everybody that I was an FBI agent?"


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: Hey all - we take a brief break from the action to have the conversation you've all been waiting for. Enjoy!

(Happy reader - if you can sign in, please do. You have some very insightful comments that I'd love to respond to privately. Your P.S. is correct!)

Subterfuge Chapter 9

"So, why did you announce to everybody that I was an FBI agent?"

It was asked in a level voice, more curiosity than accusation lacing the question, but it still hit Neal with a force that compressed his chest as though his ribs were trying to collapse inwards and merge with his spinal column.

He'd known the question was inevitable. Peter was an investigator through to his marrow, mysteries like Christmas presents that he would slowly unwrap, peeling off the tape and layers of paper to get to the heart of the conundrum. But Neal had hoped that that innate inquisitiveness would remain in abeyance until the crisis was concluded one way or another. Of course, that meant that the worse case scenario of dying had the silver lining of never having to explain himself. Either way, he'd have time, an interval to marshal his most articulate and eloquent justification.

Eloquence was, after all, his forte. With smooth words and a charming smile, he had convinced many marks of his good intentions and escaped the consequences of dubious actions. Yet now, faced with a simple question from this man, he was as tongue-tied as a school kid facing the principal for the first time.

He couldn't construct words long enough to assemble them into an explanation that made sense. They lodged in his throat, too thick to emerge together and he couldn't persuade his tongue and vocal chords to cooperate.

"Neal."

Peter was the only one who said his name that way, both gentle remonstrance and reassurance simultaneously. It actually made him want to spill his deepest, darkest secrets.

Words started dripping from his lips, the merest trickle, but it was enough to precipitate a proliferating flow, like a single rock triggering a massive landslide. Sentences started tumbling and tripping over each other in an uncontrolled rush, a tumultuous avalanche threatening to overwhelm him.

"I...should have...you see, I thought, well clearly I didn't really, at least not enough. I should have done better, but if I hadn't, I guess...once I heard that, I had to do something. It was the first thing that came into my mind, and that was my mistake. I should have done more, thought more, you're always telling me to think about the consequences, but I'm so used to improvising. You shouldn't be the one with the consequences. I'm sorry, I really am sorry. You have every right to be mad at me. I should have come up with something better. I never meant you to get hurt. It was the opposite in fact, and I failed dismally in that, although we managed to avoid the whole dead thing, but that really wasn't…"

"Neal!" This time his name held the snap of command, and he stopped so abruptly, he nearly bit his tongue in the process. He raised his eyes to find Peter gazing at him quizzically with the slightest uptick of a smile. "Wow, that earns you the score of nine point five on the scale of verbal incoherence. That must be a first for you, a personal best."

Neal gathered together enough shreds of rationality to construct a retort. "I'll have you know that my oratory skills were the envy of cell block C."

"So that's how you got hold of the warden's wife's credit card."

"Actually that was more sleight of hand than sleight of mouth, although, now you mention it, my mouth might have been peripherally involved in a different capacity." The normality of exchanging badinage with Peter helped to relax him, restoring a part of their rapport that had been missing that morning.

"The romantic exploits of Neal Caffrey, part douze." The comment was gently teasing, and Neal appreciated the fact that Peter was giving him the opportunity to settle down and compose himself, to continue the conversation at his own pace when he was ready.

He felt ragged, unravelling internally, the loose threads fraying for weeks now. One more tug and he might shred completely. But Peter was still watching him, steady and sure, and the weight of that gaze grounded him.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" The question seemed irrelevant, unrelated to their discourse or their situation, and his immediate reaction was an intensification of the culpability he'd been accumulating since Peter had disappeared under a hail of fists. Guilt fit uneasily inside him, an unaccustomed shape, poking him with sharp corners and unanticipated angles.

"I tried to keep watch last night, but I think I nodded off occasionally."

"So when did you last have a good night's sleep?" Peter persisted.

Neal applied himself to the task of remembering, but the silence lengthened as he struggled to generate an accurate timeline. "It's been a while," he admitted at last. "But probably not since I skipped the anklet and started playing the fun game of Where in the World is Peter Santiago."

A smile threatened to reopen the split on Peter's lip. "How did you find me anyway?"

Neal waved a dismissive hand. There was already too much to discuss, and, as Peter had emphasized, he was too tired to be thinking straight, so he just hit the highlights. "You've mostly got Mozzie to thank for that one. Hughes let slip you were with the Chechens and, from what you had said to me, I realized that Abramov was your informant. When Mozzie heard Milo was involved in a deal with the Chechens, we thought you would be in trouble, so I hooked up with the Serbians to offer you backup and a possible exit plan."

The chromatic bruising on Peter's face spoke forcefully of his failure to provide that assistance. He almost said that outloud, but decided that his friend didn't need to listen to another torrent of remorse. However, transfixed by the visual evidence of what had happened, his mind kept sliding back into a loop of self-recrimination and regret.

Although one eye remained grotesquely swollen, Peter still possessed the uncanny ability to see far more than most people, especially when it involved Neal's deliberations and intentions. "Instead of blaming yourself for global warming and kicked puppies worldwide, why don't you just tell me what happened?"

"I've already told you," Neal countered. He distinctly remembered spilling his guts, although, strangely, he couldn't recall a single word he'd said. "I did the whole confession bit." He mimed a violent regurgitation.

Peter took an over-exaggerated deep breath, quickly regretted it, and released it slowly, his expression indicating that he was mentally reciting the Serenity prayer. "Since you have a deep cellular-level aversion to confession, you clearly need more practice. Why don't you try again and take it from the 'whole dead' thing."

Neal fought through the haze of sleep deprivation to present the facts as clearly as possible. "My cover with Milo was intact, so it wasn't hard to infiltrate his group." Exhaustion was creating flickering shadows in his peripheral vision, so he needed to concentrate and compartmentalize, dividing his memories into small manageable chunks.

"I was with them for several days before we came here. I knew that several of the Chechens, including Abramov, could recognise me, so I kept a low profile when we arrived. However, I was unable to find you, and thought Abramov was my best lead."

There was a pause as Neal took a sip of water, using the delay as a breathing space to marshal the details. "I found him in a conclave with Maskhadov and managed to get close enough to overhear them."

Peter was surprised by the implications of that revelation."You speak Chechen? I didn't know that was one of your eight languages."

"It isn't. I'm fluent in eight languages - including Serbian, but I have a basic grasp of several others. I can't say much in Chechen; it's incredibly hard, due in part to having 44 vowels, but I can understand quite a bit. Enough to realize that Abramov was planning to kill you. He gave Maskhadov orders to take you into his office to make a telephone call and shoot you there. I didn't catch everything he was saying, but that much was clear."

Peter remembered the sly malice in Maskhadov's gaze and had no difficulty believing it. He kept his expression encouraging and did nothing to break Neal's train of thought.

"I was afraid that if I left to try to find you, I might miss you altogether, and you would walk into the trap. So I stayed where I knew I could intercept you. That didn't leave me many options. I couldn't go searching for a fire alarm or some other form of distraction. All I knew is that I had to prevent you from entering that room."

Peter eyed him with mystified confusion."So, let me get this straight. You're somehow feeling bad because you saved my life."

"Yes...No...Wait, that's not the point."

Peter shot him a look that said, "You're an idiot." Unfortunately, it was a familiar look and not one of Neal's favorites. Usually it was reserved for such acts as going on a shopping spree with someone else's money or breaking into a suspect's house to illegally obtain evidence. This time, however, it was touched with concern and an invitation to explain further.

"You're taking advantage of an addled mind," Neal complained, but in reality the relief he felt that Peter didn't seem to be holding a grudge trickled renewed energy into every cell of his body. "Obviously, I'm glad you're still alive."

"That's good to hear, so…" Peter prompted.

"But look at yourself! You can barely move, and your face looks like a piece of raw steak that's been chewed on by a dog. That's my fault."

"Nice, but I didn't see you in there with a baseball bat," Peter said mildly.

"No, but you wouldn't be in there getting beaten up if I hadn't announced in a room full of mobsters that you were an FBI agent."

"Given a choice between that and a bullet in the head, I'll choose the superficial bruising, thank you."

"I should have come up with a solution that didn't involve either."

"I'm sure you tried, but it was a tall order, given the circumstances. Neal, you have an amazingly creative, resourceful mind, but you're not superhuman; you were restricted in your options."

"I should have come up with something better," Neal repeated stubbornly. He didn't know how to convey the sense of failure he felt. He'd never accepted the idea of incidental casualties in his cons. He'd rather cancel an operation, potentially losing millions, than risk injuring a civilian. That didn't mean accidents hadn't happened; Alex was a notable example.

"This is different," he insisted, not sure if he was arguing with Peter or his own internal dialogue. In his agitation, he sprang up, needing to move, to pace, but forgetting the tilt of the boat, he almost fell backwards. Peter reached out automatically to catch him, but quickly recoiled with a cry of pain as his ribs protested the sudden movement.

Evasion was clearly not an option, so Neal sat back down abruptly, his mind reeling within a skull that felt thick as cement and dense with pain.

Peter was watching him carefully as if he were an explosive device on a countdown rapidly approaching zero. "Neal, I'm fine." The tightness of the voice belied the assertion and, at Neal's grimace of disbelief, he amended it to: "I will be fine." When Neal offered nothing but another doubtful scowl, he continued. "I want to help, but I can't if I don't understand exactly what's bothering you."

Neal didn't want to talk about it any longer. He felt stripped bare like uninsulated wire. He could use humor to deflect, but that was an old technique that Peter was more than fluent in, and once the FBI agent was on the trail of something, it was hard to shake him off, so Neal decided to follow the precept of a good defence being a strong offence.

"You think I'm too shallow to care that I got my best friend beaten to hell and back." He injected a sharp edge of bitterness into his response, but Peter continued to watch him steadily and compassionately, so the net result was Neal feeling more wretched.

"If there's one thing I know about you," Peter stated quietly, "It's that you probably feel things more deeply than anyone I've ever met."

Neal smiled briefly. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

"Then let's just accept it as a statement of fact. I'm pleased to know that you're not happy I got hurt, but you're also rational enough to know that you saved my life, and so I'm grateful for your actions. Taking that into consideration, your reaction is…" he paused, searching for the right word, "an overreaction. I just think there is more going on in that noggin of yours than you're telling me, and experience informs me that when you're upset and refuse to talk about it, the results are... unpredictable."

As usual, Peter was right, but Neal himself wasn't sure exactly why he was feeling so distressed. It was like a sore tooth he had been trying to avoid but whose raw nerve he was now forced to prod with the dentist's probe.

"I feel like I betrayed you," he said slowly. At Peter's automatic refutation, he cut him off. "If you want me to get through this, you can't keep interrupting," he mock-complained.

In deference to his ribs, Peter kept his go-ahead motion small.

"I'd been there for a while, pretending to drink and carouse with the others, but keeping the entrance to Abramov's office in sight at all times. I was actually starting to panic, thinking my translation was inaccurate, when I saw you enter the room, and I was so relieved that you were alive, then I realized I had split seconds to keep you that way. I just didn't have a viable plan. You know I'm good at extemporizing. I usually rely on my improvising skills to keep me out of trouble, but it's harder with two, and Maskhadov was a wild card.

"I had some far-fetched possibilities, but they were dangerous. My best plan involved taking advantage of my drunken persona and tripping up Maskhadov and knocking him out. But I knew he was armed and he could recognise me, so that could end up getting us both shot."

Realization breached the wall of denial he had clearly constructed, seeping astringently into every synapse and neuron, to caustically sear his brain with self-disgust. His first impulse was to dissemble, to prevaricate, but Peter deserved to know the truth.

Neal tilted his chin up for maximum courage. He was holding this friendship in the palm of his hands, and he feared that if he spoke, it would crumple to dust. However cavalierly he had occasionally treated it, this was the most valuable thing he possessed. Peter had somehow managed to tuck himself deep inside Neal's life, and to lose him now would cause an excision of massive proportions.

Yet Peter had forgiven everything so far, all the little deceptions and chicanery, the subtle machinations and even the more consequential acts, such as discharging his weapon at a federal officer, complicity in the theft of one of the greatest collections of art, and most critically, though unintentionally, involving El in potentially lethal situations. Somehow Peter had always managed to look beyond the actions and even their results, to focus on the intentions that impelled them. Fearing he was on the brink of irrevocably losing that lenience, Neal could finally recognize it for the gift it was - bestowed by a unique combination of keen intelligence and a generous heart, all leavened by a sense of humour.

He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a dry click from his throat. He guppied uselessly for a few seconds, then subsided. Peter wouldn't have to look hard to see how difficult this was for him. Despite Neal's best efforts at relaxation, his resistance was evident in his rigid shoulders, arms folded defensively in front of him, hands gripping tight enough for white knuckles.

To his surprise, there were no attempts at coercion from Peter. The agent tilted his head back against the headrest and shut his eye. It made it easier to talk, but Neal hoped his friend wasn't falling asleep, because he couldn't do this more than once.

"The choice I made - I threw you to the wolves, but it reinforced my cover." The words were jerky and stilted, marionettes dancing to a reluctant puppeteer.

"Correlation, not causation."

"What?" Neal hadn't been expecting that interjection.

Peter heaved a patient sigh. "Neal, did you come here thinking 'how can I further my criminal career? I know, I can throw Peter under the bus.' No, you took the extreme risk of going undercover to try to rescue me. To do so, you were forced to break my cover. Two very different things."

"That's not the point. I chose the option that would keep me safe at your expense."

"No, you chose the plan that had the best chance of getting us both out alive at the other end. You prevented me from being summarily shot while maneuvering yourself into a position to rescue me later."

"Seems to me, I should have at least had your consent, or at least informed you, before I initiated a plan that would get you beaten up," Neal responded a little sulkily, not quite sure why he was pushing this side of the argument, but feeling that Peter was dismissing his point a little too summarily.

Peter threw him a rueful smile, also realising that irony of their argument. "There have been many times I've wanted you to take more responsibility for your actions, so believe me now when I tell you that you've got nothing to feel guilty for."

Neal summoned a smirk, though it was an effort. "Do you mind if I get a recording of that speech, you know, for future reassuring purposes?"

Peter winced. "Absolutely not going to happen." He could imagine Neal using the recording of his voice to open safes, persuade the Marshalls to expand his radius, and at least a dozen other nefarious scenarios.

This time it was Neal who extrapolated from the refusal. "You do understand that makes no sense. You trust me to break your cover in front of the mob, but you don't trust me to record your voice?"

"That's because you're not an average human being. You're a mystery wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in Devore suits and smartassed smiles. I'd trust you with my life, but I keep my hand on my wallet when you're near."

"For all the good that does you," Neal muttered provocatively. It couldn't be that easy. He'd seen the shock of betrayal on Peter's face before he disappeared under the boots and fists of the mobsters. In the hour that followed, especially knowing that his friend was being interrogated and the violent form that would take, he'd imagined Peter in pain, believing in his friend's treachery, and that notion had settled eviscerating guilt as a poisonous ache deep in his bones. To be not just excused, but praised for his actions seemed more a fantasy than reality.

"So, we're good?" Traces of insecurity still lingered, despite Peter's absolution, and Peter clearly sensed his need for encouragement and didn't begrudge the support.

"Stop looking at my bruises as marks of adversity and see them as evidence that my blood is still pumping, which is entirely due to you. Of course we're good, we're better than good, what is your top rating anyway - copacetic? You risked being returned to jail by cutting your anklet when you realized I was in danger. Again, disregarding your own safety, you went undercover where your identity could be exposed at any moment. Under extreme pressure and time constraints you figured out a way to save my life. Then you came up with a scheme to set the bad guys against each other to buy you time to rescue me. You took out two armed mobsters and got us to a place of, what was it, comparative safety. You expect me to be angry with you? That all sounds pretty damn heroic to me."

The guilt which had held a choke hold on Neal's throat finally relaxed. "You think I'm a hero," he crowed.

"I didn't say that," Peter immediately backpedaled, but he was suppressing a smile.

"You said my actions were heroic. I'm sure that makes me a hero," Neal needled happily.

"You sure you don't have a recording device? Maybe it makes a nice change from watching you plummet out of fourth-story windows or leap from cable cars."

"You worry about me." The comment was supposed to be teasing, but even Neal could hear the edge of wonder and gratitude in it. With a physically absent father and an emotionally absent mother, that form of familial concern had always been missing from his life. There was little time to feel embarrassment before his mouth opened in a jaw-splitting yawn.

"You get some rest; it's my turn to keep watch," Peter proposed.

As appealing as that sounded, Neal wasn't yet ready to cede his role as caretaker. "You really think it's safe? I'm surprised we haven't had anybody knocking on our door yet."

"Maybe they really do think we're dead." Peter was prepared to be optimistic. "If we'd been where you said we were, we'd be goners."

"With all the containers around, maybe they've decided there's too many places for us to hide for them to waste their time searching." Neal punctuated the sentence with another yawn.

"I think the most likely scenario is that they've decided we can't do any damage while we're holed up, so they've posted guards in strategic places to spot us if we try to move. I think we're safest here for now. When you've had some sleep, you'll be more effective at eluding them."

Neal lay down on the seats across the aisle from Peter, closing his eyes with relish. He drifted off almost immediately, but he wasn't dreaming when he heard Peter say softly.

"Thanks for coming after me."


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: So when we last left our heroes, they had hashed out previous events but they're still stuck in Schrodinger's lifeboat. Can they escape?

Subterfuge 10

Neal was granted, at the most, two hours respite before being awoken by a resounding crash. He jackrabbited up, certain the enemy were pounding at their door, adrenaline thundering through his veins, slamming up into his heart, causing it to pound unpleasantly.

"It's not Abramov's men." Peter was peering out of a window. The bandage Neal had tried to wrap around his ribs had fallen loosely to his waist, so the agent was using an arm to brace them instead. "Maybe the ship's leaving the dock. That would be a fortuitous way to escape under their noses, but a bit inconvenient if we find ourselves on the other side of the Atlantic."

The familiarity of the sound suddenly registered. "That's the gantry cranes moving the containers. The question is, are they loading or unloading them?" Neal squeezed out into the aisle. "You're right. This could be an opportunity. Sorry, but I need to have my coat back for a while. It's best I go out looking like a stevedore rather than a homeless man attempting to stow away."

"I thought we decided it's safer to stay on the boat." A sudden thought struck Peter. "I don't suppose there's a radio on this boat that we could use to call for help?"

"No, just an emergency locator beacon, but considering we're attempting to keep a low profile, setting off an alarm that screams "we're here, we're here'' would seem a little counter-productive. However, if we can smuggle ourselves into a container that's being taken off, there's a good chance we not only get off the boat, but out of the compound altogether without showing our faces. I think it's worth the risk."

He carefully helped Peter divest himself of the jacket, and, for good measure, he redid the wrap around Peter's ribs, a much easier task in the daylight.

"Take some more pain pills," he instructed. "You're going to need them if we're moving." He also held out the gun he had confiscated from the dead mobster. "Here, it's better if you have this."

"You're more likely to meet a plug ugly with a gun." Peter made no move to take the weapon.

"If I do, I'd rather rely on my speed and agility to lose them. You, however, are moving like an octogenarian with emphysema. Take it."

Peter accepted it reluctantly. "Be careful. Speed and agility don't deflect bullets."

The lifeboat was well equipped with tools. Neal had intended to appropriate a few for his explorations, but in the end decided to take the toolbox itself, complete with all its contents, to assist his disguise.

Cramming his beanie onto his head, Neal exited into the crisp morning air, his breath pluming white in front of him, fogged from the cold. He changed his normal spry gait to a heavier tread, slumping his shoulders. His checkered career had taught him how important it was to look as if he belonged and not to sneak around as if he had something to hide. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and pretended to check things off on it as he strolled around.

He noticed with satisfaction that the ship was indeed being unloaded. He watched as the spreader of a great crane swung over, the four clamps fastening down on the locking points of the top container in a stack and smoothly lifting it away.

Since there were over 17 million containers shipping goods over the world at any one time, Neal was a self-taught expert on those ubiquitous metal boxes. He'd learned to recognise elements of the BIC code that tracked them, and how to tell which were sealed so the slightest change in air pressure caused by unauthorized entrance would set off an alarm. Given the right tools, he could break into any of them, but he was limited by the contents of his toolbox and the small selection of lockpicks he was carrying.

His needs were very specific. Peter was in no condition to clamber up the stacks, so he needed something located on the deck coupled with the simplest type of security. Perhaps most importantly, the doors of the container had to be in an area not under observation, so he could break in with impunity. In his 'inspection' tour, he'd found only two boxes that met these optimal conditions. The final requirement, which necessitated actually opening the container to verify, was that the contents weren't packed so tightly there was no room for stowaways.

He took a last casual glance around to make sure he would be uninterrupted, then started work. The padlock was protected by a small but sturdy lockbox, which guarded against crowbars and hammers, but did little when attacked with a dexterously wielded pair of lockpicks. However, opening the box that way would break the bright orange seal and make his tampering evident. Instead, with a deftly placed, firm tap with a chisel, he removed the rivet from the locking bar handle, disabling the whole assembly.

At that point, he could release the custom catches, then lift both handles, disengaging the lock rods, and pull open the right-hand door. His first reaction on seeing the tightly packed pallets inside was dismay, but he quickly realized that standing next to the cargo was an invitation to get crushed if it shifted in transport. The safest place was on top of the freight, and there was around 18 inches of clearance just under the roof. It was the best he could realistically expect to get, so he needed to close everything up, so only the closest inspection would reveal tampering, and go back to the lifeboat for Peter.

It was easy enough to reverse the steps to lock it back up, using half the bolt to hold the lock assembly in place, and nobody would be any the wiser without close scrutiny. However, it would be a very different matter when they were inside the container. The locks couldn't be accessed from the interior where there wasn't as much as a handle to hold the doors shut. He needed to lay some significant groundwork to prepare the container for that situation, and he would prefer to accomplish that while Peter was still safely ensconced in the life boat. Taking out a hacksaw, he started to remove the ends of the vertical lock bars, so the doors could be pulled shut from the inside and still appear locked.

This was a tricky and time-consuming operation, and nearly an hour had passed by the time he returned to the lifeboat, making absolutely sure he wasn't detected or followed. He pulled up short on entry, coming almost face-to-face with Peter braced against the opposite wall, gun in both hands but pointing down and away.

"Whoa, Trigger!" he exclaimed.

"Trigger was a horse," Peter pointed out acidly.

"'Whoa, Roy Rogers' doesn't exactly convey the message I was looking for."

"You were gone a long time. Did you stop off at Starbucks?" Behind the sarcastic question there was genuine concern over Neal's long absence. Neal guessed that Peter's proximity to the door meant that he had been on the verge of limping outside to mount a putative rescue.

During this exchange, Neal was assessing his friend's condition. He was glad to see Peter on his feet, but he didn't miss the discernable signs of physical discomfort: the hunched posture protecting his ribs, the two lines of strain slashed on either side of his mouth; but there was still that indomitable determination in his eyes.

"The local Starbucks was closed, so I had to go to New Jersey, but my time was well spent arranging our transportation. Fear not, your carriage awaits." He paused, consideringly. "Well, it's more like the carriage before the fairy godmother gets hold of it."

"That was a pumpkin," Peter countered, his previous worry over Neal's long absence leaving him cantankerous.

"And now's a good time to nitpick my metaphors?"

"Allusions," Peter pointed out with evident satisfaction.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you over the sound of you proving my point."

Peter seemed disinclined to continue the argument, having expended his energy on fretting earlier. "Next time, give me some indication of how long you'll be," he grumbled, sitting down stiffly.

Neal eyed him with reservations. "Are you sure you want to leave the lifeboat? It might be safer staying here."

"For how long?" Peter shook his head adamantly. "No, with a possible terrorist attack imminent, we have to take that risk. I need to get that message out. Our interference might have moved the timetable up."

"Who do you trust with that message?"

"I don't know, probably Hughes. But we can argue about that en route to a telephone."

Neal quickly stripped off his coat and handed it back to Peter, keeping only his longshoreman gloves, which he shoved into his pockets. "Put this on while I load up on some supplies." He strode to the supply lockers, emptied a convenient bag of its contents and refilled it with water bottles, power bars, medical supplies and thin, folded space blankets.

This time, he knew the exact route to take so that the towering stacks of containers would conceal them from the crew, so they made it to their destination without incident. However, as the crane yanked away another box, he realised they were rapidly losing that cover, and that the removal of a couple of more containers would leave them exposed.

He hustled Peter to the entrance of their selected container. It was a narrow corridor between the stacks and an even tighter squeeze to get into the crate, since the door couldn't be opened very far. In those close quarters, he felt rather than saw Peter tense as he beheld the task ahead. Visually assessing the climb himself, he admitted that it was daunting for someone with cracked ribs.

"I can help you get up there," he offered quietly. He wanted to apologize, to offer to take Peter back to the lifeboat, but he knew Peter too well to do either.

Peter squared his shoulders, "How do I do this?" he asked stoutly.

"You use me as a ladder," Neal instructed. "Climb in the corner so you have support from both the wall and the crates."

Aware of the diminishing stack of containers outside, he wanted to urge speed, but trying to rush the climb could cause more injury and would be counterproductive. He patiently coached Peter through the painful process, trying to keep pressure off the climber's torso, but as he reached the top and had to inch his way onto the cargo, it would inevitably impact his injuries. Peter knew it too and hesitated with one foot on Neal's shoulder, one hand on the cargo.

"Try to keep your weight on your forearms," Neal gritted out. Peter's shoe bit savagely into his shoulder for a second, then the weight was gone. The tight, pained groan that emanated from above had him wincing in sympathy. He had to trust Peter to finish the job, to pull his battered body up far enough to avoid the Wicked Witch of the East impression he was doing now.

A rattle announced the arrival of the spreader, the harbinger of expired time. He was out of options. A glance showed him that Peter's feet had been pulled in like a snail into a shell. He took a last look at the exterior. The left door was securely latched and the right appeared secured. The locking system was in place and the seal unbroken. Of course, without the ends of the vertical locking bars, it merely appeared secure. Preventing the door from swinging open whilst inside was the tricky part.

He would have liked several hours to perfect the logistics of the plan and, preferably, come up with several alternative backup strategies, but that was no longer possible. He squeezed into the narrow space, pulling the door shut and holding it in place with the pads of his fingers against the wedge of the frame. Luckily, it didn't exhibit a tendency to swing open, which was good, since his grip was too flimsy to hold it against even its own weight. Maneuvering was almost impossible. He lay on his left side facing the door, left hand gripping tightly. With his right, he placed an Allen key in the lower crack where the floor and door met, then pulled on his glove before plucking an emergency flare out of his pocket.

"Keep your eyes closed and bury your face in your arms and breathe lightly," he called up to Peter and ignored the concerned query that immediately followed.

He removed the cap from the flare with his teeth, then struck the end against the floor of the container. It burst into flame, sputtering tiny sparks in all directions. Attempting to keep it pointed in a downward direction, he placed the lit end on the Allen key at arm's length.

He kept his head tilted down, his mouth pressed against the slight gap at the bottom of the left door, breathing in precious oxygen instead of the toxic fumes. He had to judge this carefully, the amount of solder critical to their survival: too little and the welding wouldn't hold and an inadvertent swing from the crane could drop them and the cargo into the harbor or onto the docks. Too much, and not only would the toxic fumes poison them, but there would be no way to break the makeshift seal. They would be stuck in the container indefinitely.

He counted the seconds in his head until he estimated the job was done, then risked a look through closely squinted eyes. The heat was intense, and he was dripping sweat, but he was satisfied by the blob of metal he saw. With his gloved hand still grasping the unlit end, he tried to dash it out against the metal floor, but it refused his efforts and continued to burn merrily.

Fear squeezed the air out of his chest as he realised belatedly that sealing themselves in the crate with an intensely burning object had very definite drawbacks.

Peter called out something again, but he couldn't hear it over the sound of his wildly beating heart. "Toolbox," he croaked out urgently. "Small hatchet. I need it now!"

There was a brief pause then sounds of banging from above. With a clatter, the hatchet dropped down, the blunt edge hitting his thigh. He grasped it in his gloved hand and swung, neatly decapitating the burning end of the flare. Deciding it was too generous a portion that would likely keep burning for several minutes, he chopped again, this time isolating the very top.

A water bottle landed on his thigh. It wasn't sufficient to put out the flare which was fizzling to an end anyway, but he splashed it on the crate which was smoking in a threatening way, extinguishing the danger of fire.

Head swimming with the fumes, he lay on the floor, too dizzy to contemplate moving, until increasingly urgent demands from above roused him. The climb wasn't difficult, but it was accomplished with none of his usual grace.

As he collapsed beside Peter, his friend's voice spoke conversationally, "You know, the FBI offers a training program in fire safety. I'm thinking of enrolling you. I believe the first precept is 'don't set things on fire.' Words to live by."

A series of coughs delayed Neal's response, but eventually he wheezed out, "That would have been my first plan, but I left the duct tape in my other pants. Besides, I'm more experienced in breaking into places than I am at soldering doors shut with an improvised iron."

"You mean they don't offer classes in tidying up after your breaking and entering?" Peter was having entirely too much fun teasing him.

"Sure they do, and I aced it. However, the number one rule in that class is don't lock yourself up inside the place you broke into."

"Good point. I can see how that would be actively discouraged. In that case, excellent job, MacGyver!"

Neal was all too aware that applause was premature. "Don't congratulate me until we're successfully out of here. There's always the possibility that the seal will work too well, and we'll be stuck in here until they find our mummified bodies 50 years from now."

"I would imagine they'll open the doors before we even have the opportunity to get hungry never mind wither away...unless there's something you're not telling me."

Neal made a noise that could be interpreted however Peter desired, too tired to explain his diverse throng of concerns. He rested his head on his arms and concentrated on pulling clean air into wizened lungs. It wasn't long before his repose was interrupted.

"I'm rethinking my position."

Neal's heart dropped with an almost audible thud. "Look, I understand. I didn't really expect absolution for my actions. If you want to…"

"Neal!" Peter interrupted. "I meant," he continued as patiently as a strained voice could convey, "that I'd do better if I was lying on my back."

There was a moment's silence that spoke volumes about self-castigation and forgiveness. Then Neal said weakly, "Oh."

"We're good, remember." Peter chided him.

Neal gamely rallied. "That's right. We're on the same page."

"It's a good page."

"One worth dog-earing for future reference," Neal affirmed.

With a grunt of pained effort, Peter managed to roll over onto his back and lay there, panting lightly. Neal rolled over companionably to join him. "That better?"

Peter made a sound of derision. "It's about the difference between lying on a bed of uneven rocks or a bed of spikes. It's better, but it still leaves something to be desired."

It wasn't completely pitch-black in the container. There was a modicum of light seeping in, presumably from a rusted seam somewhere, just enough to see the vague outline of his hand in front of his face. It was reassuring because presumably oxygen could get in the same way, yet it also added to the claustrophobic nature of the space, outlining the limited parameters of the metal coffin in which they were lying.

Peter clearly shared that apprehension, reaching out and tapping the roof so close to their faces. "There are a lot of these things stacked above us. I don't suppose they ever collapse, do they?"

"Not a chance," Neal was happy to reassure him. Then he mused, "However, about 10,000 of them are lost overboard every year."

"Wow, that must be an absolute menace in the shipping lanes before they sink. The modern, post global-warming equivalent of the Titanic iceberg."

Neal's optimism had defected to another country. "Well, let's hope they don't drop us in the harbor."

"That's a happy thought. Assuming we make it to the dock, what will happen once they unload us?"

"There are protocols and, judging by what I've seen of their operation, they'll follow most of them. Probably, they'll load us onto the back of a truck. The seal is unbroken, so hopefully they won't check inside and, after passing a couple of checks, we'll just cruise on out the gates. Then the first time the driver stops, a good hard shove should break the welding and we're free to search for a phone."

They fell quiet for several minutes, listening to the faint hum of machinery and the clang of metal objects colliding. As much as he wanted to rest, Neal knew there were issues that needed to be aired.

"How sure are you about this terrorist attack?" He felt the barest shrug of a shoulder next to his.

"I was very sure, but now...I don't know. It doesn't really make sense." Peter quickly explained what he'd seen in the warehouse.

Neal was quick to see the inconsistencies in the argument. "If Abramov is involved, why did he invite FBI scrutiny in the first place, and why did he order your execution?"

"It's possible he genuinely believed that there was a danger. Also, it had occurred to me weeks ago that there was a possibility he couldn't afford to let me live since I've seen way too much of his operation, Maybe it's as simple as that, but I'm fairly sure it's not."

"It doesn't explain his seeming collaboration with Tomkins."

Peter shifted slightly as if he wanted to sit upright to discuss the topic, but was thwarted by the ceiling 12 inches from his face. "That makes the least sense of all. I know the man. I know his reputation, and I've worked closely with him this last couple of months. He's passionately, even fanatically, dedicated to fighting terrorism. There's no way he would be complicit in an attack. His brother was a first responder who died in 9/11. I can't imagine any circumstance that would make him an accessory to terrorism. It's impossible."

Neal didn't share that confidence, but was willing to concede the point for now. "Maybe he was duped by Abramov in some way."

"I don't see any way that Abramov could have spun this information to make Tomkins act in this way, to reveal our location after we specifically told him Abramov couldn't be trusted." Frustration lifted Peter's voice above the whisper they'd both been using. He blew out a breath before continuing in more muted tones. "All we have is speculation for now. We need more facts before we can pin this down. But I think we have to act as if the threat were real and inform Hughes and Deputy Director Brown of our suspicions."

Neal was losing the thread of the conversation as the cold started seeping into his brain, numbing his faculties. Buried as it was at the bottom of the stack, their container had yet to be touched by the sun, and the bitter chill was as oppressive as the darkness, holding him down and permeating his core. The warmth he'd generated sealing the door had long since dissipated and sweat had dampened his clothes, exacerbating heat loss. He didn't know how long he'd been shivering, but tremors rattled through him, thrumming his nerves and chattering his teeth.

He realised that Peter, despite the coat, was in a similar situation, probably being more susceptible to the cold because of the physical damage he'd received. He scooted closer, mindful of Peter's bruises.

"You mind sharing body heat?"

"I don't think I have any, but you're welcome to share my body chill."

Neal rooted around blindly in the bag of purloined items, his usual deft fingers clumsy as he fumbled for the blanket packages which, once located, proved almost impossible to open with unwieldy hands. Finally succeeding, he leaned over, carefully tucking one end around Peter's far side, then lay back to complete their human burrito.

Although Peter clearly felt chilled, as continuing shivers attested, that appeared to derive from an appreciable fever, a worrying development that would have to be carefully monitored. However, from Neal's perspective, it made his friend a human space heater, and he leeched that delicious warmth, relaxing gradually into its comfort.

A slight tremor rattled the container, the metal shifting slightly around them. Neal could feel the tension return to Peter's shoulder where it was socketed companionably against his.

"What was that?"

Neal couldn't fault him for that alarm. It was disconcerting to hear such noises when the ceiling was a foot from your face and escape impossible.

"Nothing to worry about," he said reassuringly, hoping he was right. "I think they've started working on our stack."

Peter chuckled softly. "I feel like a sardine in a can, waiting for someone to peel back the lid. I've never had a problem with claustrophobia, but I'm working on it right now."

"I could tell you about the time I got stuck in a ventilation system," Neal offered helpfully.

"That sounds like a fascinating story, and one that I'd love to hear when I'm lying on the beach sometime. Right now I'd like to hear about something far more soothing. How's El?"

"She's fine. Missing you and looking forward to your return, but she's okay." It was an excellent topic for distraction. He regaled Peter with tales from the past two months, of the art museum visits, the dinners and the games, and Peter soaked in every word, thirsty for the comfort of domesticity.

The stories helped weave a cocoon of normality and distracted them from both their increasingly uncomfortable surroundings and the sporadic juddering as the crane picked up the boxes above them.

"Thank you." Peter's voice was soft and wistful in his ear. "I knew I could trust you to take care of her."

It was a rare individual who could take such joy in accounts of his beloved wife spending time with another man. Neal swallowed, humbled by the trust and graciousness of his friend. It prompted a rare moment of emotional openness from him . "You never have to thank me for spending time with El, and you were right in how much she helped me. At times, she was the only thing keeping me going." Trying to keep a humorous spin on things, he started telling Peter about the problems he had endured in the White Collar unit in his absence. He knew Peter would read between the lines and hear the subtext of just how much he'd been missed.

He was so immersed in his tale of ill-usage and injustice that he lost awareness of their situation. Peter's hand on his arm and the soft susurration of "Shhhhhh," alerted him to the danger. Indistinct voices outside warned of the presence of people nearby and potential discovery. Neal strained to distinguish a language, hoping to identify the intruders as crew or a search party looking for them, although it probably made little difference. The former might be unarmed, but would put out an alarm that would lead to discovery by the latter, and they were also more likely to spot signs of tampering on the door.

The voices swirled around them, ebbing and flowing. Neal thought the language might be Albanian which would make them crew, but he wasn't sure, his linguistic competency not extending that far.

At a loud comment disconcertingly near the doors, he started to sit up, intent on finding a way of concealing their presence if the container were opened, but Peter's grasp tightened on his arm with the clear message 'keep still'. The slightest sound from inside would invite inspection and inevitable discovery. HIs heart battered into high gear, thudding painfully in his chest, and he lay there hardly daring to breathe, unselfconsciously gripping Peter's sleeve, his friend's presence both comforting and terrifying.

In contrast to his physical immobility, his mind raced frantically, working out ways to protect Peter if the container were breached. His plan, if he could convince his friend to go along with it, was to capitalize on the element of surprise, springing out and drawing off the enemy in a merry game of chase. In was quite possible his amateur soldering would render the door incapable of being opened from outside and he was unsure what their reaction would be to that.

In the midst of bracing himself for action, there was a loud bang, the precursor to a series of metallic knocks and scrapes. Having prepared himself to run, adrenaline exploded and he surged upwards, succeeding only in smashing his head against the inconveniently nearby roof, the sound luckily indistinguishable from the other crashes.

He collapsed back down, burying a cry of pain in Peter's shoulder, appreciating the hand that came up to support him. The shock as much as the pain momentarily dazed him, but he still realized the sound had been the container above theirs being plucked off. It made him feel vulnerable, their little box now isolated and unprotected, but common sense informed him that it really meant that their departure was imminent, which was a positive development.

Peter's hand patted an urgent question of concern, and Neal pulled away slightly, Since the voices were now more distant, he risked a slight whisper. "I'm okay." There was more he wanted to say, but silence still seemed the wisest precaution, so he subsided reluctantly, settling his aching head with caution, cushioning it on Peter's inviting arm.

Their container would be next, and the waiting was agonizing. The box was their personal tumbril rattling slowly on the way to execution, with the hope that it would miraculously bypass the guillotine entirely. Inactivity in the face of adversity didn't come easily to either of them, so lying motionless and mute, surrendering their destiny to fate, was fundamentally contrary to their natures, magnifying their frustrations, a laboriousness that grated on every nerve.

After a couple of minutes, the need to run or fight was twitching just under Neal's skin, a fidgeting itch that must have communicated itself to Peter because the agent tugged slightly on the arm buttressing Neal's head, gathering him in closer, offering comfort and counseling forbearance. Neal squirmed a hand around to rest on Peter's and tapped out a message in morse code.

 _I think I'm lying on a splinter_

It proved to be an excellent distraction, an exercise that required mental concentration and, since his receptive skills were apparently rusty, even more so when Peter replied.

 _Better than a xeel_

 _?_

 _Better than a nail. Stop squirming_

 _Not squirming_

 _Second cousin to an eel_

I…

Pleasantly occupied deciphering the tactile conversation, they both startled as a muffled boom resounded outside, closely followed by a series of dull clangs close to their heads as the spreader latched on to their container.

The commotion would camouflage any noise they made, so Neal had no compunction about uttering an urgent warning. "Find something to hold on to. This could get rough."

The caution would have been considerably more useful if there was anything protruding sufficiently to grasp. The first jerk upwards was slightly unbalanced, tipping them to one side and,without handholds, it was enough to roll them both, Peter slamming against the wall and Neal, despite his best attempts at braking, sliding across and landing on top of him.

The thin choked sound of pain from underneath him had Neal quickly scrambling away, trying to keep pressure off Peter's ribs. The container righted itself as it swooped upwards, the sensation disorienting, especially without accompanying gusts of wind. He plastered himself back against the crate, three limbs braced as if ready to make a lopsided snow angel, one arm attempting to provide some stability for Peter.

It was a disconcerting ride, silent and dark, with unpredictable acceleration vertically and horizontally, creating swooping then heavy sinking sensations in the pit of his stomach. The container seemed fragile, at the mercy of capricious external forces, and it pressed in on him like a constricting vise.

The prospect of landing held no promise of reprieve. They could be lowered into the midst of armed men and there was nothing he could do to prevent it, nothing he could do to protect Peter. That possibility made the butterflies in his stomach, that he could usually appreciate for their helpfully accompanying adrenaline, grow fangs and sink them into his gut. He felt claustrophobic, trapped inside crushing layers, the metal skin of the container, the confining skin of his own body and the self-imposed skin of responsibility.

"After playing hopscotch on the roofs of cable cars, this must be a breeze for you." The whispered comment broke through Neal's forebodings, and as he pondered the question of why it really wasn't, the ride was over. The end was anticlimactic. He was expecting a hard jolt, but they settled with remarkable gentleness.

"Piece of cake," he answered with an attempt at his customary flair, while contemplating the complete lack of control which made it a lie.

From the gentle rumble that vibrated through the whole structure, they had been placed on the chassis of a truck. If they followed usual port procedure, they would go through a safety check on the truck, pass through the radiation portal monitor, and then the driver would present his papers at the exit. Not knowing if anyone were nearby, Neal resorted back to morse code to pass this information onto Peter. He neglected to pass on his greatest fear - that Abramov would have each outgoing truck searched before it left the premises. However, he was fairly sure that Peter would anticipate that possible wrinkle in their plan by himself.

Detaching himself from Peter, and ignoring the interrogative sound that resulted, he edged backwards to see if there was hiding room behind the crates, but they were stacked up against the wall. He even contemplated breaking into the crate beneath them on the off chance there was room for Peter to hide. However, the noise he would make in the process was more likely to draw attention. He lay in an agony of suspense, heart slamming up to his throat each time the truck stopped and voices could be heard.

When, after a final stop, the truck stopped lumbering and picked up speed, he couldn't believe their luck and tried to quell the relief that flowered in blossoms slippery and elusive.

"I think we're out," he exclaimed softly, but there was no response from Peter. In a bolt of superstitious terror, he was suddenly sure that the fortune of escaping unscathed would be balanced in some cosmic accounting book by a deterioration of Peter's condition. Rolling over to cross the gap between them, he reached out hesitantly. The blanket had been lost earlier in their abrupt shift of position. He pulled out his pencil flashlight, no longer concerned that it would be spotted in the daylight outside.

Peter was once again shivering, although his forehead was damp with sweat, heat radiating from him. Neal retrieved his bag, unearthing some water and painkillers. He shook Peter awake, worry burgeoning as that proved to be a difficult process, but eventually convinced him to swallow the medicine. "Hopefully this will bring down your temperature as well as help with the pain," he encouraged him.

Peter was uncharacteristically quiet, settling back down and falling asleep immediately. Leaving a hand on Peter's for monitoring purposes, Neal allowed himself to slip into a light doze, lulled by the soft bouncing of the truck, confident he'd wake up if Peter needed him.

Several hours later, he was awoken by Peter startling awake, and moved to quickly restrain his friend before he emulated Neal's head-bashing mistake. "Easy. Take it easy. Everything's fine."

Peter's fever had diminished, if not broken, under the influence of the drugs, but he was still initially confused, uncertain as to their position before realizing, "We're still in the world's most uncomfortable truck on the road to nowhere."

"Well, someone got out of bed on the wrong side of the lifeboat this morning." Neal was actually happy he felt well enough to complain.

"I think that would have ended up with me in the water. Which actually would have been preferable to being stuck in here. My claustrophobia is flourishing nicely. I hope our next mode of transportation is a convertible. I'd like the wind in my face for a bit."

"So apart from a yearning for the open air, how're you feeling?"

The pause might suggest Peter was taking an internal audit, but, to a professional equivocator, it also suggested that he was trying to couch it in the most positive terms possible. "I'm not exactly ready to run a marathon, but I don't feel too bad. Bruises might look bad, but they heal fast."

"And cracked ribs are useful as chopsticks. Seriously, Peter, you don't have to sugarcoat it for me. I suppose this means you don't need any more painkillers?"

Peter chuckled. "Painkillers would be very welcome, as would a bath or warm shower and a feather bed. Trust me, if you really want me to complain, I could come up with a few choice words about this planes, trains and automobile extravaganza you're taking us on. But I just want to go home, and I think you're doing a damn good job of making that once-impossible dream a likelihood."

"Home sounds pretty good," Neal admitted, sudden emotion turning his voice husky. He'd lived his life as a tumbleweed, where home was foreign concept. He'd always settled into a new habitat with ease, but moved on with equal composure, a clean break usually best under the circumstances.

But home now had real significance. Family didn't necessarily mean related by blood. It was a choice, shared experiences, laughter, caring, a hug in a moment of shared triumph, a clap on the back expressing sympathy. None of it would have been possible without Peter.

That home was now in jeopardy in more ways than one. If Peter was correct about the terrorist threat, then everyone he cared about was in danger. On a more personal level, Neal was concerned about the consequences of cutting his anklet. There were bound to be unpleasant repercussions, since the FBI was getting a tad miffed with him for repeatedly abusing his shackle.

"You're brooding," Peter observed, although how he could see anything was a mystery, since the narrow beam of the flashlight was pointed away from Neal's face and scarcely illuminating anything.

"No, I'm not," he denied automatically and not altogether truthfully.

"If brooding were a competitive sport, you'd win gold for America."

With a semblance of wounded dignity, Neal responded, "If you mean I have something on my mind, you are correct."

"You say potato, I say share with the class. We're in this together. Don't hold out on me."

"You think the circumstances don't merit a little contemplation?"

"I think we're at our best when we work together, so spill."

Neal played the flashlight idly through the fingers of his left hand, creating a medley of shadows on the opposite wall as he thought about his answer.

The few moments of silence were dark and dank, rife with possibilities, fertile soil for conjecture.

"You're thinking about running when this is all over!" Peter suddenly exclaimed.

"What! No, I'm not!" The denial was a knee-jerk reaction to accusation, born of years of questionable activities, and it was only after he'd spoken that he realized that it wasn't altogether truthful.

"You think that after all these years, I don't know the signs?" Peter persisted.

Neal briefly considered pursuing his favorite policy of denial, but the quiet darkness contained the ambience of the confessional, and he still felt he owed Peter the truth.

"'Thinking about running' is overstating the case. As you know, it's more of an ingrained response, so I can hardly be held accountable if the thought fleetingly enters my head. So, what's my tell?"

"Magicians don't reveal their secrets."

"What happened to 'share with the class?'"

Peter laughed. "Fair enough. Well, first of all, it is your default setting. To quote your jacket, 'Neal runs.'"

"So you're saying it was a lucky guess."

"No guesswork involved. I know you. When you get wistful, thinking of 'home', you're also thinking of leaving it."

"That's..." Neal paused, "...quite true. And that's because it's not something that I want to do."

"Then don't. And know this, you're not going anywhere without me. If you try, I'll track you down." At Neal's sharp intake of breath, Peter quickly added, "Not as an FBI agent, but as your friend; then I'll drag you back to your family - because that's what you have here, Neal, a family, and you don't give up on that. You fight for it."

Neal was too choked with emotion to respond immediately, a bubble of warmth effervescing up his spine to lodge in his chest cavity like emotional heartburn. No one had ever cared about him like that before, cared enough not only to not let him go but also to bring him back home because it was where he belonged.

For most of his adult life, he'd always assumed that when he died, he'd be buried by whatever municipality had the misfortune to be the location of his death. His worldly goods, the sum total of the value of his life, would be purloined by his fellow con artists - the likes of Keller, Wilkes, and even Alex. But now there were people who would miss him and mourn for him. Peter would grieve for the loss of a partner and friend. Neal owed him more than to just disappear.

Once more Peter revealed his telepathic skills. "If you're worried about the anklet, don't."

"Well, I was informed in uncompromising tones what would happen if I cut it again."

"I promise you there will be no repercussions. If necessary, I will inform the FBI that I called you and begged you to do it because I needed the help. That it's my responsibility."

Remembering what Hughes had told him about Peter's stipulation for taking the assignment, Neal was about to express his appreciation when the truck made a turn, rumbling over some rough ground before lurching to a stop. As the dull roar of the engine died away, Neal banked the flashlight and held his breath. His ears were ringing from the constant roar of the truck, but he strained to hear the footsteps of the driver, attempting to gauge the direction and maybe even their intent from the speed of their departure. They faded in a business-like manner that Neal hoped indicated their location was a rest area.

"I think he's gone. This could be our best chance," he whispered. He wriggled forward and dropped down in the cramped space in front of the doors, giving them an experimental shove. Not surprisingly, the door gave slightly at the top, but the soldering at the bottom remained stubbornly attached. He applied more pressure, but the narrow confines weren't ideal for optimum leverage since he couldn't get his weight behind the thrust.

"I can't open this without making some noise," he warned Peter. "That's going to attract some attention, so it would probably be best if you were in a position to make an immediate exit. Bring the supply bag with you."

"So you want me to play flip the pancake and then slide off this griddle."

"Don't mention food. I don't remember when I last ate a good meal."

"You and me both. Apparently Chechen mobsters aren't known for their fine dining."

Turning back onto his front was more than slightly uncomfortable for Peter, but getting down proved much easier than climbing up, thanks to the help of both Neal and gravity, although the pinch and pull of abused muscles and bones still hurt.

With all his strength, Neal stamped on the door just above the makeshift lock, but it was impossible to get a good angle to apply force, so he was obliged to substitute repeated moderate kicks for one good blow. He hoped the noise wasn't as clamorous from outside as it was from inside, but at this point he had no choice but to continue. In the end, the door gave with unexpected suddenness, swinging open wildly.

It was an overcast day, but after the hours of darkness, it seemed blindingly bright, and Neal blinked like a mole emerging from an underground tunnel. His first watery glimpse confirmed that they were at a rest stop in a wooded area. His second observation wasn't as bucolic. A large policeman was approaching, a scowl on his face and his hand on a gun.

Neal's first thought was a sarcastic, "Great, we managed to pick the rest stop with a cop in it." A quick glance showed him that Peter was thinking. "Great, we managed to pick the rest stop with a cop in it," but the sentiment was an exact opposite to Neal's, since it was sincere appreciation.

Neal's instinct was to bolt, but he quickly realized that even if Peter were in a condition to run, which was a dicey proposition in and of itself, it was completely antithetical to his core beliefs to flee from a fellow lawman. Indeed, there was relief in Peter's face, while Neal saw approaching doom. His unease increased in inverse proportion to the shrinking of the distance between them. The door of the truck was gaping behind them with the tools of ingress in their possession, and he wasn't expecting to be offered the benefit of the doubt.

Sure enough, within seconds, he was looking down the barrel of the gun with the command, "Kneel down on the ground with your hands behind your head," ringing in his ears.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's note: As so many of you noted, out of the frying pan into the fire. However at least the fire isn't as claustrophobic! Enjoy!

Also a big thank you to my beta, Nonny who has done a wonderful job keeping up with the editing.

Subterfuge Chapter 11

Neal had heard the words, or variations on the theme, many times in his checkered career, even from Peter, and he'd learned when to gracefully surrender, when running offered a decent chance at escape and when it promised a bullet in the back. He would definitely place this situation in the latter category.

He didn't actually blame the cop - he was outnumbered - but neither did he look the type to be overly concerned about constitutional rights. Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Neal followed directions. However, from his position on the ground, it was evident that Peter wasn't intending to follow suit. Although his hands were held up unthreatening and open above his head, he had stayed on his feet.

"My name is Peter Burke, and I'm an undercover FBI agent," he stated in a calm, authoritative voice.

If the cop had been capable of looking beyond surface impressions, he might have been, if not convinced, at least less skeptical about the claim. But Neal could tell that the officer could only see the torn bloody shirt covered by the ill-fitting worker's coat and the battered face. To the prosaic mind, he looked like a hobo who'd suffered a beat down, not the leader who commanded his men with intelligence, humor and grace.

"Get down on your knees now!" The angry shout had a decided wobble of agitation in it, indicating just how threatened the cop felt.

"Do it, Peter," Neal warned, terrified that any more stress would tighten the finger on the trigger.

Peter obviously recognised the danger as, with a placating gesture, he lowered himself painfully to the ground.

Observing the perceptible easing of tension this caused, Neal exhaled a shaky breath. The cop didn't lower his gun, but the set of his shoulders visibly relaxed, and he did loosen his grip on the trigger.

Several interested onlookers had been attracted either by the noise or the actions of the cop, and loitered casually in the background. Neal had been peripherally aware of them, but had ignored them as irrelevant until a more purposeful movement caught his eye. A portly man with a dirty cap pulled low on his face pushed himself to the front of the bystanders. He gazed behind Neal at the gaping truck, then pulled a phone out, walking a short distance away to speak into it with accompanying gestures that suggested anger and urgency.

Neal was willing to hazard a guess that he had just located the missing truck driver, and that gentleman had just called for reinforcements. Given the distance they'd travelled, there was a chance that this wouldn't be an issue for a while, but they couldn't depend on that since the Chechen network was extensive. He tried to signal to Peter to see if he'd spotted the suspicious activity, but he seemed to be focused on the cop.

After indicating both his harmlessness and his compliance, Peter continued to talk, his tone reasonable and calm but also insistent. "I'm an FBI agent and this is my partner. I'm asking for your assistance as a fellow law officer."

The policeman unbent enough to ask, albeit in a skeptical tone, "If you're FBI, let's see some ID."

"I don't have my ID on me since I was working undercover," Peter repeated patiently. "But I can give the telephone number for my boss, Reese Hughes, who can verify my identity, or the Deputy Director under whose authority I'm conducting this operation."

"Don't worry, you'll get your phone call when I take you in for processing."

It wasn't a helpful answer, but Peter maintained his composure. "Under normal circumstances, that would be fine, but the matter is urgent."

"Everyone has a sob story."

Appealing to the cop's professional nature wasn't succeeding, but Peter persisted. "This is a matter of national security."

There was a moment's hesitation as visions of reflected glory and promotion glistened in the cop's eyes, but ultimately he decided to play it safe. He took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and threw them on the ground in front of Peter, who was closer. "Put these on one wrist and put the other end on him."

With a caution due more to his ribs than the threat of the gun, Peter bent to pick up the cuffs and turned to face Neal. There was wry humor in his expression that spoke of a small sliver of fellow feeling for the law officer who didn't realize just how futile this form of restraint was for Neal, but tempered by an even larger sense of pride in Neal's eclectic skill set.

With an arched brow he asked Neal which hand he'd preferred cuffed, fastening them on his own right wrist when Neal held out his left. Even knowing their presence would probably be temporary, Neal was unable to suppress a shudder as they closed on his wrist, the reaction only partly due to the chill of the metal, the restraints evoking visceral memories that swirled darkly, the remembered claustrophobia of confinement making his palms sweat and his heart skip and race.

It didn't escape Peter's attention, and he gripped their shackled hands together reassuringly. "It's going to be okay," he muttered with what Neal thought was more optimism than the situation merited.

"The truck driver…" he began.

"I know, I saw, but soon we'll be in the police car, then the police station, and I don't think they're looking for an all-out war with the cops, so they won't attack us there, and once we have access to a phone, we're golden."

It was a nice theory, but Neal felt that it lacked dispatch. "Let's see if we can speed it up."

The officer was talking on the radio, so Neal sought his attention with a polite wave of the hand like an attentive student. "Excuse me, officer. As you can see, my partner is injured and needs medical attention." He threw his most harmless and engaging smile. "Would it be possible to get him in the back of the police car? As soon as we get to the station, we can call the FBI and clear up this misunderstanding."

The cop looked indecisive, Neal's friendly manner not what he expected from a suspected felon. Peter hurriedly tried to make the shift from authoritative FBI agent to injured man in need of rapid first aid. It wasn't an entirely successful transformation, but their apparent docility and the marks on his face achieved what his body language couldn't.

"Yeah, okay, let's go."

Neal helped Peter to his feet, steadying him as he pitched and reeled from the sudden change in blood pressure. The cuffs prevented Neal from bolstering him the way he wanted to as they started limping towards the car. Suddenly remembering the truck driver, Neal tried to locate him in the dwindling crowd, but he seemed to have vanished. That might be a matter for concern or relief. Neal was worried the man might be armed, with plans to delay their departure, but either way, he'd rather keep him under observation.

His suspicions appeared justified when they arrived at the police car and discovered a flat tyre. There was no obvious sign of damage, but the car wouldn't be moving any time soon. The profanity-laden tirade from the cop was accompanied by hostile glances in their direction, but since the responsibility for the flat couldn't be pinned on them, the animosity was unwarranted.

"Well, we didn't do it," Neal pointed out acerbically as they received another glare.

"Unless you're working with someone."

Peter intervened. "As I mentioned before, we are working undercover to try to prevent a terrorist attack, and this is an indication they know where we are and are trying to restrict our movements until reinforcements arrive. It's imperative we leave here as soon as possible. Do you have a spare tire and a jack? The longer we stay here, the more danger we're in."

While still not convinced of their credentials or accepting the existence of a terrorist plot, the timing of the car's defect did lead the cop to an acknowledgement of the possibility that there was some substance to their story. He refused to change the tire himself, which was understandable since he not only had two prisoners to supervise, but also a possible saboteur in the vicinity, but he called in a request for back-up.

It would be a race, although neither of the participants was aware of the contest, but Peter and Neal's fate rested on the comparative speed of the reinforcements. A few casual questions extracted the information that they were in the Catskills, the woodlands opposite the highway corroborating the location. Neal was keeping a sharp eye on the on-ramp, so he had critical seconds of warning when two black SUVs brimming with menacing individuals powered into the rest area.

The tight grip on his arm told him Peter had also spotted the approaching danger. He wasn't surprised when Peter immediately caught the officer's attention pointing out the speeding vehicles. However, the FBI agent still had the capacity to shock him because in a sudden move that yanked Neal forward painfully by the wrist, Peter stepped up behind the cop and as that unfortunate gentleman turned back with a query, a left hook knocked him cold.

For a split second, Neal stood, mouth agape, admiring Peter's handiwork until the single word, "Run" entered his consciousness, and if there was one word that could evoke a Pavlovian response in Neal, that was it. As he took to his heels, an insight into the logic behind Peter's seemingly uncharacteristic action flared into his mind. Knocking the cop unconscious not only prevented him from delaying their flight, which would have been fatal, but it also protected the officer himself, since as an armed and uniformed professional, he'd have been the obvious target, the first man to be taken down by the approaching mobsters. It might have been a split-second decision, but it was sound reasoning.

If Neal could have chosen a direction freely, he would have headed for the parked cars in the hope of begging or stealing a ride, but the rest area was divided, trucks and cars separated by a wide swath of grass, and they were now cut off by the converging gunmen.

By unspoken agreement, they sprinted over the scrubland to plunge headlong into the nearby woods, Neal's greater speed taking him into the lead as the branches and underbrush plucked at his clothes and scored unprotected skin. In the summer, they would have been lost almost immediately in verdant cloaking, but now the trees were bare, and it would take much longer before the sheer bulk of matter between them and their pursuers would conceal their progress. Meanwhile, the leaves on the ground betrayed the path they took both by snapping and crackling like an over-enthusiastic bowl of cereal and by flattening unobligingly under their feet, a glaring 'Kilroy was here' for anyone possessing the tracking ability of a short-sighted wombat.

Behind him, Peter tripped over a root, and the sudden deceleration yanked Neal's wrist backwards, travelling up to wrench at his shoulder. Judging from Peter's exclamation, it wasn't any fun from his end of the cuffs either. Neal pulled him up then shoved him ahead to set their pace. No bullets had followed them yet, but he'd prefer to be in a position to shield Peter when the lead started flying. The trees were dense enough to impede direct progress, forcing them to snake and twist in a drunken approximation of a straight line, but that also offered the benefit of a considerable amount of solid wood between them and prospective projectiles.

Neal's mind was now working faster than his legs. If he'd been alone, he'd have been confident of his ability to outpace his pursuers, then double back around to the road and hitch a ride by virtue of a flirtatious smile. Their progress now was impeded not only by the manacles but also by Peter's injuries and consequent lagging. They needed to gain enough ground to nullify both those disadvantages. With ten seconds breathing space, Neal could remove the handcuffs and then he'd have no choice but to once again stash Peter in a place of safety and lead their pursuers off, stomping down a convincing path for them to follow.

A glance back showed him nothing, which boded well for their own lack of visibility. He took the opportunity to give them both a brief respite, and in the sudden cessation of their feet shuffling through the detritus of the undergrowth, he monitored the cacophony of sounds, tuning out the ambient noise of creaking branches and rustle of wind through the fallen leaves to concentrate on the aberrant sounds that signalled the presence of the following mobsters - the panicked flight of small fauna and the ripple of disturbed flora.

It only took a few seconds of mapping the movements around them to realise that their pursuers had fanned out, probably hoping to encircle them. He needed to implement his plan before they were cut off. He tamped down the brief flare of desperation, sucking in a couple of deep breaths, trusting the oxygen to blast through the haze of fear-clogged distraction. There was an atavistic horror to being hunted, the body recalling a time when homo sapiens weren't at the top of the food chain, yearning to hunker down in a cozy cave to avoid ripping teeth and tearing claws.

However, it wasn't Neal's first experience as prey in the hunt, albeit most other times had been in a more concrete jungle. Either way, survival was a fraught balance of skill, luck and speed of thought and action.

Peter was watching him steadily, but his face was drawn with pain. The time in the truck had provided a much needed respite, recharging depleted reserves, but he was still in no condition for a protracted chase. However, there was no sense of limitation in the grim determination that emanated from his expression, just raw resolve.

Neither of them said anything - voices carried too easily in the cold with no foliage to muffle harsh syllables, but there was mutual understanding in the look they shared. It acknowledged how much trouble they were in, professed to believe they'd been in worse, and promised they'd get through it together.

They resumed running, the thud of feet cushioned by the carpet of leaves. The weak afternoon sun provided little warmth as it filtered through the branches, so panted breaths plumed in the frosty air. The cuffs necessitated Neal following closely in Peter's wake, which made it impossible to avoid the slap of recoiling twigs that left welts and scratches, but those petty irritants were nothing compared to the constant anxiety of the unseen menace closing in on them. It spurred them on, a relentless pressure that goaded them, propelling them forward when a bone-deep sense of exhaustion weighed them down, a resistance as real as the brambles and branches that plucked at them.

Before long, Peter was weaving in a manner that suggested he wasn't seeing much in front of him, although he hadn't yet run into a tree. His steps were starting to falter, stumbling drunkenly. When still, he could compensate for the pain in his ribs, keeping his movements stilted and his breath shallow, but this pounding pace jarred his injuries, the heaving of stertorous gasps of breath wrenching at his chest. Neal knew they needed another rest, even though they'd been running for less than ten minutes.

As Peter hunched over, attempting to ease the clawing agony in his side and choke down the nausea that threatened to erupt, Neal set to work with a ubiquitous paperclip to release the handcuffs. He could do this in seconds when blindfolded with his hands fastened behind his back, so having his right hand free and the lock in plain sight was the equivalent of asking a world class gymnast to do a forward roll. His artistry nearly balked at the insult. He could have unlocked it even if he had a tremor worthy of a bobble-headed doll in an earthquake.

Shaking out his newly freed left wrist, he absently slipped the cool metal into his pocket, once more intently checking his surroundings. He was no expert on trees, especially those denuded of leaves, but the ground they were walking on could double as an ode to Canada, so it was a fairly safe bet that they were maples. In the summer or early fall, they would have been ideal for his purposes, but this was an inopportune time of year for hiding up a tree.

It was easy to lose one's sense of direction with no path or landmark to steer them accurately, but originally their destination had merely been anyplace there wasn't a large man with a larger gun, so it hadn't been an issue. Getting lost was almost a bonus. Now, Neal was aiming for a grove of larger trees which might include oaks.

They set off at less than the breakneck pace that Neal would have preferred, but the benefit proved to be an enhanced capability to detect sounds around them. For the first time, he heard shouts from their pursuers, close enough to induce alarm, but not outright panic. They veered away from the nearest voice, changing their trajectory to the eastern side of the rise. Neal hoped it wasn't a conscious effort to herd them in the direction of a silent partner. After all, it was a technique mastered by dolphins and lions and, if you believed the movies, velociraptors.

The trees were more spread out now, the giants crowding out their rivals, the intricate pattern of their branches sprawling high and wide. Their ramified skeletons were silhouetted starkly against the graying sky in an invitation to climb, but they lacked any type of multi-directional concealment. If the two of them could survive another hour, encroaching darkness would turn them to shadows, ghosts impossible to detect in a dusky landscape, although the accompanying cold would probably accomplish what the gunmen couldn't.

The trick was eluding their pursuers and the concomitant bullets for that long. Every single minute of that hour would cleave like a leech seeking his blood, dilating the time by an unpredictable factor. He had to resign himself to the fact that the perfect tree would not suddenly appear looming above him, and accept the best approximation - like the twisted specimen on his left.

About fifteen feet up, a thick, gnarled branch split off the bole, curving picturesquely back on itself in a way that screened the area behind it. Peter wouldn't be invisible there, but in his dark coat, he would be hard to spot, and Neal knew how infrequently people looked up if there was nothing to catch their eye.

He stopped Peter with a touch to his back and beckoned him to follow. "Tread carefully," he whispered, barely a sound. Demonstrating, he picked his feet up meticulously, taking care to disturb the leaf litter as little as possible. Reaching the foot of the tree, he gestured upwards, eyebrow raised invitingly.

Peter followed his gaze, frowning. After assessing the possibilities for a moment, he shook his head. "If our trail just disappears," he muttered softly, "they'll just search the immediate area. It's not exactly covert, or large for that matter, and if they found us, we'd be literally sitting ducks."

Neal suppressed a sigh, not eager at the prospect of the forthcoming conversation. It felt like they'd had this argument yesterday - oh wait, they had. At that point, Peter had appeared quite sanguine at the idea of being left behind, in fact, he had urged Neal to leave. The circumstances were now a little different, and Neal wasn't expecting the same acquiescence. He wasn't disappointed.

He struggled to find some convincing logic, or at least find words to cogently present his case, but the effort proved unnecessary, because Peter caught on to his plan without explanations, Neal's evasiveness sparking red flags.

"No." It was flat and uncompromising, leaving no room for wheedling, which didn't stop Neal from trying.

"Peter…"

"No," he repeated again, a little too loudly for Neal's liking. Luckily, he lowered his volume to continue. "Besides, you told me you'd given that up for Lent."

"What?" Neal had forgotten he'd made a promise to stop stashing Peter away while he scouted out the surroundings. "Oh, not Lent, Christmas."

"That makes no sense. No one gives things up for Christmas; it's a time of indulgence."

"Seriously? You think that's relevant right now? Besides, you're the one who's inconsistent. Yesterday you were practically begging me to leave you."

"Yesterday that offered the best chance for your survival, and getting word out of a possible terrorist attack. Today it's suicide."

There it was, Peter's protective instinct, shining as bright as his suit of armor and the white horse he rode in on. To extend his own metaphor, Neal needed to find a way to turn it, reflect it back into Peter's eyes and blind him.

He decided to fire a soft volley first to test Peter's resolve. "You should have more faith in me by now."

With an air of extreme forced patience, teeth gritted to repress a snarl, Peter pointed out, "Neal, there are at least eight armed men with murderous intentions wandering around vying to be the first to put a bullet in your head. I refuse to serve you up to them on a platter while cowering in an oak tree like King Charles."

Neal brought out the big guns, bracing himself to cause injury, knowing he had to hurt Peter, but willing to do so if it kept him alive. "You're slowing me down," he stated brutally. "It's going to get us both killed."

Peter flinched under the blow, the truth behind it silencing him. Neal stepped in for the coup de grace. "You know how fast I am. Alone, I can outpace them. You have to trust me."

The struggle on Peter's face was monumental and heartbreaking, the pain of his quandary revealed in a myriad of ways that only a best friend would recognise: the minute working of a certain muscle in his throat, the vulnerable set of his jaw and, most of all, the anguish of indecision clouding the already bloodshot hue of his eyes which stared unblinkingly at Neal, a targeted laser beam of unhappiness.

Neal knew he'd won when Peter ran a hand over his face, breaking that visual connection, and he'd never been more impressed by his friend's integrity, his commitment to do the right thing whatever the personal cost. This went against all his instincts, his need to take care of things, but when faced with the possibility that his guardianship could actually harm Neal, he had immediately capitulated. He'd been accepting help from Neal all day, but this was the cherry to top the sundae of humiliation.

He nodded, like the acknowledgment was choking him, his expression bleak. "We've wasted enough time. Every second counts." He glanced up at the tree. "You're going to have to help me up to that first branch. I can't reach it by myself."

Neal could have sworn his heart stopped beating for a second as his chest tightened under the hurt of seeing Peter somehow diminished and defeated by his decision. But Peter was right, there was no time for self-indulgence. He tried to match Peter's quiet determination. "I can do that."

He stepped forward, ready to provide support to elevate his friend to the necessary height, but Peter stopped him, one hand on his shoulder. "If you get yourself killed, I…" His voice was raw and hitched, the words caught in his throat before he could force them off his tongue, but Neal could hear the unspoken conclusion - Peter would have to live that guilt. He would never forgive himself if he survived at Neal's expense. It was a sentiment that Neal shared, and he was having second thoughts about Peter's role in this plan. Peter's comment about being a sitting duck came back to haunt him with accompanying visual effects. However, he still believed it was the best chance they had.

He offered an unsteady smile. "Even if I was in hell, you'd find me and drag me out. Then you'd be 4 and 0."

"Don't put me to that trouble," Peter ordered hoarsely. Sliding his hand up to cup the back of Neal's neck, he pulled him in for a brief hug.

It was easier than Neal expected to get the older man up into the tree. They worked as a well-oiled team despite Peter's injuries, and Neal was moderately satisfied with the result. As long as Peter kept still with his head down, there was a strong possibility he wouldn't be noticed.

From above, Peter called, "Hey, Neal, catch!" Automatically moving to grab the falling object, Neal stared unbelievingly as a gun, safety on, fell into his hands. He'd forgotten about the weapon they'd purloined in the mad scramble out of the warehouse. They were lucky that the cop back at the rest stop had, in a disgraceful breach of protocol, failed to frisk them, not wanting to get that close, preferring to keep both under observation and gunpoint from a distance.

For once in his life, Neal was happy to see a gun, but he wanted it for Peter not himself. Then he realised why Peter had delivered it in this fashion. "Too late now, you take it. And Neal, if you need to, use it. Now go."

Neal stared up at him, knowing Peter was right, but suddenly reluctant to leave. Peter's presence generated the gravitational pull of a small black hole, and Neal was trapped on the edge of the event horizon, stretched molecule thin by the power of that gravity. There was an ominous finality to this goodbye. Tearing himself away took more effort than it should.

"Relax and try to be part of your surroundings," he offered as parting advice before carefully picking his way back to their former trail and covering their tracks as best they could. Once he started running, he shuffled his feet enthusiastically to make it look like two people had passed, then opened up his stride.

It was different from running in the city, the ground more yielding underfoot, and he had to make constant adjustments to his course, hurdling some obstacles and swerving lithely past others. However, the cold burn in his lungs was the same, as was the endorphin rush which masked the pain of strained muscles and urged him to greater efforts.

At this point, it was imperative that no one caught sight of him, figured out their ruse and backtracked to Peter. They had lost precious time at the oak tree, and he had to hope he was still ahead of all their pursuers. Although the rhythm of his steps threatened to lull him into complacency, he fought to stay alert, watching for unexpected movement around him and ambush ahead. After fifteen minutes, he was forced to settle into a more sustainable pace.

The sun had disappeared behind a hill and, as it sank lower, it sucked all the remaining warmth from the air. Neal slowed again, walking quietly, as the crepuscular light made it harder to spot jutting branches. Evading a protruding root, he suddenly realised two fatal flaws in his plan. Once his trail had been camouflaged by the encroaching darkness, it would be impossible to find his way back to his partner. Meanwhile, the sweat he'd worked up would chill against his skin and, without a coat or protective clothing, hypothermia was a real danger as the temperature would dip well below zero. Working up to a trifecta of woe, he wondered if there were bears in the woods. That bit of natural history eluded him. He could only hope that they were hibernating.

Neal upgraded himself from an idiot to a moron. He was still thinking like a city dweller. None of this would be an issue if he were still in New York. He'd have no difficulty finding Peter where he'd left him, and there was always somewhere he could break into to escape from the cold. The only predatory wildlife he had to worry about there was an errant mugger. The reality was he had to shift his way of thinking to deal with his natural surroundings.

Panic rose, hot and sharp, at the thought of Peter injured and alone in the freezing night. When Neal didn't return, what would Peter do? It was hard to imagine him staying put; his tendency to assume control would reassert itself. Neal could see this culminating in the two of them wandering the wilderness of the woods in a never-ending search for each other.

He racked his mind for what he knew about nature: water runs downhill, moss grows on the south, no, the north side of trees, follow the drinking gourd and nature abhors a vacuum. Yep, that about summed up his knowledge, and it was a short and unhelpful list, so common sense had to be applied to the situation.

He stopped, turning slowly in a circle to get his bearings. Although he could, with all honesty, describe himself as completely lost, he had a vague memory of the sun being to his left and ahead as they'd dived into the trees. He couldn't retrace his steps, since he'd almost certainly run straight into the gunmen using his trail to track him. However, getting a heading from the fading sun, he had a general idea where he'd come from and, forging a new path in that direction, he would surely eventually hit the road. In fact, hopefully he'd be able to hear the traffic, and the noise of passing engines would guide him as he drew closer to the highway. Then he could call for help, or maybe borrow a flashlight to illuminate his original path back to Peter.

He tried to convince himself that it was a solid and foolproof plan, but as he stared at the seemingly endless expanse of trees, optimism was stifled, struggling to rise past a thick layer of weary despondency. Attempting to summon his customary, but temporarily absent, confidence, Neal kicked the nearest tree with a softly voiced expletive.

It relieved his frustration, but he only had a split second to bask in the gratification of a sore foot and marginally unburdened heart, because, before the sound faded, a head popped out like a homicidal cuckoo from a tree twenty odd yards away. The gunman had been in the process of relieving himself. After a heartbeat of frozen surprise, when the two men stared at each other, his flurry of movement indicated a confusion of priorities, a dilemma of Shakespearean proportions, whether t'was nobler in the mind to tuck himself safely back into his trousers or grab his gun and fire at the fugitive he'd been hunting.

Neal took advantage of that indecision, breaking the land speed record for standing starts, hurtling over fallen branches, swerving and snaking in his breakneck rush to put as much solid timber as possible between himself and the gun.

There was an immediate shout in Chechen which he understand as broadly, 'He's here,' but there was an appreciable pause before the first shot, indicating a vote against hanging in the breeze, and giving him the opportunity to build a convincing lead. He had no idea where the first shot went, maybe it was intended as a warning, but the barrage of gunfire that followed spatted the leaves around him and thudded into dense wood.

His vision narrowed to the path directly ahead, odd details sticking in his mind - the texture of bark on a tree, the mathematical pattern of branches. He tried to use that hyper focus to his advantage, to avoid tripping like the hapless victim in a B-rated horror movie. The crepuscular light was a double-edged sword, the darkening shadows offering concealment but also flattening the contours of the ground and camouflaging roots and logs. If he could just gain enough of a lead, his best chance of survival lay in going to ground, since soon it would be dark enough to conceal all evidence of his passage.

It was rare to find a benefit to being shot at, and even now it was a mixed blessing - pushing the definition of blessing to its limits - but it was virtually impossible to shoot accurately when running, so any professional gunman worth the cognomen would be standing still to take aim, increasing the distance between him and their target, but as the designated target, Neal found it hard to summon any gratitude for the hot lead piercing the vegetation. Remembering his own gun, he pulled it out of his pocket. He had no desire to kill anyone, but merely firing it would inform them he was armed and, hopefully, increase their caution in following him. Without aiming, he pointed the gun behind him, letting off a couple of shots. To his surprise, a scream of pain and a burst of foreign profanity ensued, so he might have caused more damage than he'd intended. There was a brief pause, before the shooting resumed.

He ducked under a low-hanging branch, one arm upraised to ward off the slashing twigs. There were so many obstacles, it was hard to maintain speed or any kind of brisk rhythm. He must have caught himself on a jutting snag, his body jerking forward with a numb jolt that momentarily broke his stride. He stumbled onto one knee, but was up instantly, scrambling onward, his feet pounding in an effort to squeeze more acceleration from his exhausted body.

It felt like he'd been running for hours; his chest was heaving, lungs suddenly straining for air, no oxygen to spare for powering recalcitrant legs. The ground was sloping away gently to the left, and he headed unthinkingly in that direction, the assistance of gravity too welcome to resist.

An intense stitch stabbed him in the side, burning under the right side of the rib cage. He automatically reached down to ease the pain, and was surprised to encounter the sodden fabric of his sweater. The light was almost gone, but as he turned his hand over, he could still recognise the dark stain of blood. It took longer than it should have to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but as the realisation that he'd been shot dawned, the pain slammed into him in a white concussive blaze.

There was no time to inspect and evaluate the wound; he wasn't dead, which was always a plus, but quite possibly temporary given the amount of blood loss. His steps had faltered at the discovery, but despite the encroaching dizziness and weakness, he tried to pick up the pace, recognizing that the time in which to find a secure hiding place was dwindling.

The slope was steeper now and dotted with stones, some large enough to be categorized as boulders. Beyond the surging of blood in his ears, he could make out the murmur of water, the burble of a stream purling around rock. He lurched down the hill, drawn to the obliterating nature of the creek. It was his last, best chance to lose his pursuers.

At the water's edge, he paused briefly, considering his options. He could go upstream or down and, at any point, dart away in the forest on the other side, making it virtually impossible to follow him without assistance from an expert tracker or canine powers of nasal detection. However, he couldn't bring himself to cross the water; it felt too much like abandoning Peter, so he had to ensure the Chechens believed he had done so. Hopefully, they would then realize that the pursuit was futile and would abandon the chase.

He pressed a hand against his side, assessing the expanding stretch of blood-soaked material. The pressure caused his vision to swim and grey and inchoate nausea to surge, while the wound underneath throbbed frantically in time with his hammering pulse. He reached forward to smear his sticky palm on a chest-high rock on the shore, then stepped onto a stone in the water, unsteadily leapfrogging on convenient rocks until there were no more handy.

Carefully, he squeezed his sweater, dripping blood on the final rock. It was important not to overdo the sanguineous trail, despite the desire to make it glaringly obvious, and not just because the gunmen might be suspicious. He didn't want to give the idea that he was badly wounded and couldn't travel much further, or they would intensify their search of nearby areas.

Retracing his steps, he now clasped his left hand tightly against his side, meticulously checking that no drops escaped to send mixed messages. His knees wobbled, his long bones resembling limp spaghetti - he could even provide the tomato sauce, cold sweat beading in the vee of his throat. He meandered upstream, but only as far as the largest boulder.

On the far side, the stream, when in flood, had eroded the soil beneath it. The depression was currently filled in with leaves and debris. He scooped them out and settled himself in the deep hollow, curling up on his good side. As he tried to cover himself up with his right hand, pain, sharp and bright spiked through him at the movement, blossoming hotly behind his eyes. He bit his lip in an effort to stifle a cry, the coppery taste of blood exacerbating his urge to vomit. Trying to keep his movements minimal, he completed the task, burying himself to an acceptable degree.

If it had been daylight, discovery would have been inevitable if anyone had approached too closely, but it was almost completely dark and extremely cold. Neal was fairly sure that the gunmen would give up for the night, maybe staking out the roadstop and the highway on either side in case their fugitives tried to sneak back.

Neal lay shivering, his lungs scratched raw from running in the frosty air. He focused on small inhalations, pulling and pushing breath through the surrounding leaves in a steady rhythm, curbing the frenetic thumping of his heart. He listened for the terrorists, but sounds were muffled by the rush of blood in his ears, and he wasn't sure if the distant voices were real or imaginary. The pain that had thrummed so violently was fading, and his extremities seemed far away and tingling. He tried to move, but a wave of darkness crested over him, sucking him down under the realm of consciousness.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: So the general theme of your comments was "Oh no, they're separated and now they're both injured". Well, I can try to fix one of those problems! Enjoy!

Subterfuge Chapter 12

Previous to the last few minutes, if asked what surface was most uncomfortable for bruises and cracked ribs, Peter, after raising an eyebrow at the randomness of the question, would have answered concrete. Wood was softer and warmer than the unforgiving hardness of concrete. However, he'd have been wrong. The branch he was lying on held some kind of Olympic record for discomfort. There were knots and whorls that seemed designed specifically to protrude at just the wrong angle to maximise his misery.

Immobility was currently the key to his survival. He knew that the eye was drawn automatically to motion, yet to find a comfortable position would require wriggling of such a magnitude that observers would search the jostling tree for a nest of - no, the collective noun was a dray of squirrels - in a mating frenzy.

Becoming one with nature, or whatever ninja crap Neal had spouted before leaving, was extremely unlikely, since the tree seemed more like an active instrument of torture than a benevolent component of nature. The only benefit was the distraction it offered from the misery of his thoughts.

Accepting Neal's argument that he was an encumbrance had been galling, a grating realisation for one accustomed to being the protector. Neal was now assuming all the risk protecting him! He was useless, a liability, quite literally the proverbial bump on a log. The best way to assist his friend was to lie as still as possible, pretending he didn't exist. Physical pain was nothing compared to the feeling of total helplessness.

Peter reminded himself that every minute he was forced to lie there motionless in anticipation, meant a greater lead for Neal over his pursuers, and he was grateful for every second that separated them. There was a gratifyingly long pause before the sounds of footsteps tramping through the undergrowth reached his ears. It suggested the gunmen were more used to urban warfare and were either struggling to follow the arbitrary trail or were tiring.

Awareness of the danger he was in prickled his skin as he suddenly felt very exposed. A movement behind him could draw an eye in his direction. For that matter, the branch could break and deposit him, neatly packaged, at their feet. Speculation was unproductive. He stifled his breathing and practiced his best imitation of a tree accessory.

From his prone position, there was a sliver of space between the branches through which he could observe. He wanted to glare at the figures that moved across his narrowed field of vision, but he was familiar with claims from many in law enforcement that they knew when a hostile gaze was focused on them. He didn't want to encourage a greater scrutiny of the woods and now understood what Neal had been trying to suggest, and he tried to meld into his surroundings.

He did notice the gunmen were moving slowly, and it struck him that the reason wasn't caution, but was rather due to difficulty in following their trail. As Peter and Neal had run through the underbrush, their shuffling feet had disturbed the fallen leaves on the ground, exposing the damper humus underneath, so in the sunshine, their path showed up in dark contrast to the surrounding terrain, However, as the light faded from the sky, so did that chiaroscuro effect. In a sudden, warming burst of optimism, Peter realised it would soon be impossible for them to chase Neal with any success. In fact, if Neal could suppress his instinct to run and trade speed for stealth, he could probably lose them in a couple of minutes.

That glow of confidence lasted only until the gunmen faded from sight. If Abramov's men couldn't find Neal, it was unlikely that Peter would have any more luck, nor would Neal be able to find his way back. The trail would be invisible to all. With the frost that would descend overnight, the path would be indistinguishable to anyone but a modern day Davy Crockett by morning.

A chill of foreboding feathered down every vein. He tried to banish it with reason, reminding himself that he was the world's expert at locating Neal. Besides, surely the young man would head for the rest stop as the intelligent place to meet up again. However, Neal had confessed that the outdoors was not his milieu, and he might be totally unable to orient himself in the countryside, or might decide that's where their erstwhile pursuers would wait for them, so it should be avoided.

Stabbing even sharper was the notion that Neal might not survive the night, dressed in only a workman's jersey while it would undoubtedly drop several degrees below freezing. Without cover, hypothermia could set in even in temperatures above freezing. Neal might not even recognise the symptoms before it was too late to take action.

Peter was moving before making a conscious decision, clambering down to the lowest possible branch before readying himself for the drop. Worried more by the potential for noise that he was for the potential jarring to his ribs, he lowered himself by his arms as far as he could before the pain of the stretch forced him to release his hold. Despite his efforts to soften the landing, it sent a jolt of agony arcing through his chest. He braced one hand against the trunk, sipping little gasps of air in an effort to restore token equanimity to his system.

As soon as he could persuade his knees that they were more than just a hinge joint and could actually bear his full weight, he released his support and joined the pursuit. He felt vaguely ridiculous skulking along in the rear as if he were in the pages of a long-ago Scooby Doo script, vaguely remembered from his childhood, where sundry groups of villains and heroes chased each other around haunted castles. With that memory in mind, he didn't assume he was necessarily the last in line, and kept a close eye behind as well as in front.

Moreover, he couldn't quite escape the suspicion that this was exactly the type of boneheaded, reckless move that he'd have called Neal out for. It was a simple math equation - discovery equalled death, which would be rather counterproductive to his goal of finding Neal. It was possible they wouldn't execute him immediately. They might take him back and question him on how much information he'd passed on. The end result was the same - kaput, defunct, dead.

He dug deep and employed long-forgotten memories of capture the flag played in the woods in summer camps to flit as silently as a 50-year-old could from tree to tree, checking for large twigs that could snap so resoundingly in the still air. The two men were not difficult to follow, treading heavily and unhurriedly and making no effort to quiet their voices. Peter was fairly sure they were merely one part of the strategy to capture or kill the two fugitives. There had been at least eight men in the cars, two of whom had probably been left to prevent their prey from doubling back to the rest stop, which left four unaccounted for.

Every instinct insisted that the two men he was following were merely there to herd them forward and that the real trouble lay ahead - where Neal was. Fear for Neal's safety tempted Peter to bypass the two men ahead, either by taking them out, an unlikely prospect, or by detouring around them. Common sense won the day, pointing out acerbically that he had no chance of catching up with his fleet CI under the best of conditions, which these certainly weren't. In fact, under optimum conditions, he'd put his money on no one but Usain Bolt catching up with Neal. In a moment of sour self-disgust, he realised that Neal had been right, he'd probably slowed the younger man down enough for some of their pursuers to get ahead of him.

Self-castigation drove him harder, increasing his pace to a dangerous degree, pushing him as close to the gunmen as possible without sure discovery, but it wasn't nearly close enough to Neal to be of assistance when the strained silence was broken by a muffled, distant shout. Peter wasn't close enough to distinguish any words, but the timbre was one of discovery. The two men in front broke into a run, but he stood still, his feet as stuck as if concrete had hardened around them. An icy seed of primal fear germinated in his stomach as he froze into immobility, throwing all his energy into listening, straining to hear clues as to Neal's fate.

The staccato rattle of gunfire palpitated through the air, the sound launching some roosting crows into the air, cawing noisily. A murder of crows, Peter thought numbly. It was too apt, and searing grief welled up like a hot, hard ball in his throat. He was only marginally and temporarily reassured when continued shooting suggested that the shots had yet to snare their target.

"Run!" he whispered, trying to urge the unseen Neal to greater speed by pure mental will. With the utterance of the word, he also galvanized himself into motion. Ignoring his own injuries and abandoning discretion, he started running in the direction of the commotion. The threatening darkness coupled with his blind panic made his passage treacherous, and it wasn't long before the sharp whip of an unseen, narrow branch across his face momentarily halted his progress, rocking him back on his heels as it reopened a cut from a carelessly placed knuckle.

The dizzying pain evaporated with a whiff of detachment as a scream of agony ripped through the air, replacing all other concerns. Dread once more banished the oxygen from his lungs, constricting his rib cage to the point of asphyxiation. Had Neal been shot? Guilt curdled in his gut and, paralyzed by the sheer horror, it required tremendous effort to spur his limbs into motion again. Failure, bitter as hot blood, flooded his mouth, tasting like dirt and ashes.

He hated the woods with a passion as he stumbled through the endless expanse of trees, a perpetual nightmare of exhaustion, bristling with sharp claws and bludgeoning masses, and with little possibility of achieving his desire of a healthy Neal if he woke up. The shooting had ceased, a sinister portent in and of itself, and in contrast, the wilderness was ominously quiet, the air curiously thick, lodging stickily in his lungs and clogging up his throat.

The shouting that had previously guided him had also died away, leaving him stubbornly, but somewhat aimlessly, trudging in what he estimated was the direction of the previous action. His swollen left eye was still more or less useless, providing the barest squint of vision that did little to confirm or deny the monocular limitations offered by the other eye. Lack of depth perception was compounded by the blurry shift of shadows. It was increasingly difficult to distinguish substance from shade, reality from illusion. The looming trees cast interlocking motifs of dusky lines, dark patches creeping and mingling to form pools of darkness that concealed and deluded.

When his peripheral vision first suggested the shape of a body slumped against a tree, he swayed to a halt, staring intently at the tenebrous area, which had the immediate effect of erasing any coherency of perception. He blinked forcefully, attempting to clear his compromised eyesight. The faint odor of cordite lingering in the air persuaded him to investigate further, but a visceral reluctance to actually verify the existence of a corpse that was possibly Neal dragged his movements to a crawl. One halting step proved to be insufficient. It took two more to be certain, his mind fighting to deny the evidence.

"No, no no no no!" The soft, agonized litany was the verbal counterpoint to the slamming of his heart as it made a valiant attempt to escape his rib cage, splintering the bones with the sheer force of emotion. Neal couldn't be dead. It was impossible, an affront to everything he believed about the justice of the universe.

It wasn't as much a conviction, but a fervent hope that drove him closer, close enough to reveal the body of a stranger. The tension released in a shuddering jolt that dropped him to his knees beside the Chechen gunman. Training led him to check for a pulse, and to his surprise, he found a faint beat, which presented an inconvenient dilemma. Peter wasn't accustomed to leaving injured men behind, but Neal had to be his first priority, so two imperatives were set against each other. It wasn't really a fair fight, but in an attempt to alleviate his conscience, he quickly inspected the other man's injuries.

A bullet had hit his leg, smashing the bone and quite possibly compromising the artery, judging by the amount of blood soaking through his trousers and the surrounding ground in spite of the tourniquet tied around his thigh. He needed to be in a hospital, an impossible task for Peter. Maybe he could call for help. With a touch of squeamishness, he fished around in the man's pockets, pulling out a cell phone. It was, unsurprisingly, locked, and even if he magically divined the password, there was no signal. It might prove useful at a later time, so Peter slid it into his pocket.

He eyed the semi-automatic lying beside the man's limp hand consideringly, but its disappearance might have undesirable consequences. However, his time with Abramov had taught him that many of the mobsters carried a back-up weapon, and a quick search turned up an ankle holster. Peter suffered no compunction in removing the gun.

The murmur of approaching voices eliminated the quandary of whether or not to attempt some first-aid. Stiffly, he rose to his feet and disappeared as quietly as possible into the trees. He didn't go far, trusting to the darkness and a large tree to conceal his presence. Proximity would allow him to eavesdrop on conversations that might reveal Neal's fate. It was a plan born of desperation, and he soon regretted that impetuousness as a light swept the area, illuminating his surroundings and briefly blinding him before he shrank back into cover, unsure if he'd been spotted.

Pulse thudding, he tightened his grip on the purloined gun, despite knowing the odds against five well-armed men if it came to a shoot out. However, it must have been a cursory or accidental sweep. Peter blew out a long, silent breath as he realised there'd be no repercussions for his imprudence. He concentrated on applying his small grasp of Chechen to the ebb and flow of discussion, but he could parse no more than the occasional word. He thought he caught a phrase which could roughly be translated to 'as good as dead'. They might be referring to their injured colleague, but maybe it was Neal.

He was worried by the nonchalance of their demeanor. He would have expected anger and frustration at the loss of their prey if Neal had escaped, but they seemed unconcerned, as if they did not believe it was an issue. Peter's fretting was abruptly interrupted by the short bark of a single gunshot.

Being shot at was, sadly, not a novel experience for Peter, but the sharp crack startled him badly, both the shock of the unexpected noise and the implication that he'd been discovered. He flattened himself against the solid trunk, grimly preparing himself for a heroic last stand, but there were no further shots, and no general movement in his direction. His second, gut-wrenching, assumption was that they were shooting at Neal, but before he could jump out to assist his friend, common sense reasserted itself, insisting again that the facts didn't support the theory.

It took a long moment for realization to seep in chilling increments into his awareness. With callous disregard, the gunmen had shot their own comrade in cold blood. At best it could be argued that they believed he wouldn't survive the cross-country journey back to their cars, but more likely they didn't want to be bothered with the effort of transporting him. This dispassionate dispatch of a colleague did not bode well for the brutality Peter and Neal could expect if caught. Peter was again regretting hunkering down so close to their makeshift camp. All it would take was one of the mobsters wandering in his direction to relieve himself.

Peter wasn't kept in suspense for long. The voices started to fade, and a cautious glance showed him bobbing lights moving unhurriedly away. He tried to count the figures, but it was impossible to be certain in the encroaching darkness with the trees obstructing his line of sight. He'd have to trust that they had all departed together, leaving him only the corpse for company.

He stayed still, shivering with ever greater intensity, until all sight and sound of his erstwhile pursuers had vanished, then heaved himself to his feet - or, to be more accurate, tried to get up, because the attempt at best could be charitably called a failure, or, more accurately a complete non-event. Every joint, muscle, ligament and tendon had locked up, a stiffness of severe bruising settling into each one with the frozen temperature adding a final layer of glue to guarantee immobility.

It was so tempting to curl up and rest his aching body, but the cold drove icy spikes through his skin, and he was aware that Neal would be even colder without the protection of a coat. With the help of a sturdy tree, he levered himself awkwardly upwards. His head swam, and he clung to the trunk, panting shallowly, trying to breathe without hurting his ribs.

A few wobbly steps took him to another tree, and as he steadied himself once more, he assessed the path. He could approximate the direction the gunmen had come from, but it was now impossible to discern the shading of disturbed leaves. He needed light, and his purloined phone could provide it. It might be locked, but the flashlight function could be accessed without entering the passcode. However, it would provide a beacon for anyone still in the vicinity, making him a very visible target. Ironically, the one person he'd like to attract would probably flee from the glow, since Neal would connect it with his pursuers.

He strained his eyes in an attempt to distinguish similar lights from the departing gunmen, but he couldn't spot even the faintest glow, so it was a safe bet they wouldn't notice him. If, however, he'd been running the operation as an FBI agent, he'd have left an operative behind in the hopes that their putative withdrawal would lure out the missing fugitive. For their pursuers not to have thought of that spoke either of monumental stupidity, which was entirely possible, or a degree of confidence that there was nobody there to discover, a proposition that Peter didn't want to examine too closely.

He braced his back against a tree, gun in his right hand, phone in the other, heartbeat thudding a tense refrain. He pressed the phone on, the simple reflection of light from the screen making him feel exposed, then swiped to find the shortcut to the flashlight app. The beam of light seemed shockingly bright, but didn't extend far. Keeping it low, he did a 360 degree sweep, but it revealed nothing that could be classified as interesting, no menacing figures bristling with guns, which was a relief, but more importantly, no crumpled dark-haired figure.

"Neal!" he hissed, in a voice designed to travel only a little further than the photons of light, but the name was absorbed by the darkness that stretched inexorably on all sides. Finding his friend in that vast expanse was a daunting prospect that opened a yawning chasm of hopelessness. He fought the desperation down one pessimistic idea at a time, though he still wished intently for a tracking anklet.

Before he could launch his one-man search party, duty dictated he check on the status of the phone's former owner. It didn't take long, and he didn't reach for a pulse, the dark-rimmed hole in the forehead rendering such niceties unnecessary. It was hard to summon up more than a momentary, automatic hiccup of pity for the corpse. Even if he had the tools, it would be impossible to dig a grave in the frozen earth, so he turned his back and moved slowly in the downhill direction he'd seen the gunmen return from. He played the flashlight in long, thorough arcs, hoping not to find what he sought, but any pretense at a smooth movement was interrupted by each unusual shadow cast, each misshapen stump and log which forced his heart further up his throat as he jerked the light back for verification.

He'd quickly forgotten the potential for danger for himself, focused only on finding his friend. He could now hear the gentle purl of water, and a quick play of the light ahead showed him the river, or more like a stream with delusions of grandeur. Snow-melt in the spring would boost its strength exponentially, making crossing dangerous, but for now it could be easily traversed.

The slope of the hillside steepened, and Peter slipped on a rolling stick, catching himself with a painful jolt. Breathing heavily, he steadied himself on trees and the increasing number of boulders that littered the slope, until he stopped at the edge of the water, at a loss to know how to proceed - which he realised was probably what Neal had intended. Neal might have insisted he knew nothing about survival in nature, but he was no fool and would realise it was impossible for his pursuers to track him in the water.

Neal was a virtuoso at disappearing, so it would seem like an impossible task for Peter too, but he had spent a considerable number of years playing 'what would Neal do?', and was the world's expert at this challenging game. His CI was never predictable, but the elaborate twists and turns of Neal's mind had remarkably similar contours to his. They were two sides of the same coin. To the perfunctory onlooker they were polar opposites, lawman and conman, stamped by opposing backgrounds, experiences, and choices, yet they were forged of the same metal, their obvious differences concealing the bone-deep connection, the competence and intelligence they both shared.

The choices Neal could have made were constrained by unknown variables such as how close his pursuers were. Peter shone his light upstream then down, assessing the amount of cover available in each direction. Every instinct told him that Neal hadn't crossed the river but had used it to double back unnoticed.

His goal had been to ensure Peter's safety, not to abandon him, and traversing the water would be flirting with desertion in his mind.

"Neal," Peter called out again, his volume increasing in direct proportion to his desperation, but the name just faded into the void, as lost as its eponymous owner.

Peter played the phone on the crossing in front of him, guessing that Neal wanted to convince his pursuers that he'd cut across. The light fell on a stone near the middle stained by what were unmistakably drops of blood. Peter's heart stopped and his mind washed white, lungs pulling tight as all the air was displaced. The ripple of the water and rustle of the trees fell away leaving an echoing emptiness as every sense focused exclusively on those mute splatters, trying to parse their meaning. The implications burbled through his mind in a stream of disjointed thoughts, but they boiled down to one burning question - was the casual demeanor of the gunmen due to their belief that an injured Neal wouldn't survive a night in freezing temperatures,or had they caught him and delivered the coup de grace?

Peter frantically flashed the light in all directions, but the only other indication of Neal's passage was a bloody handprint on a large rock, as if he had steadied himself before attempting the crossing. Strangely, it slightly relieved Peter's anxiety. Taken together, the two sanguinary signposts blazed the message 'injured man went this way,' and it struck Peter as a classical Neal misdirect.

Although the source of the blood was still a cause of concern and worry that thrummed as a steady undercurrent to his thoughts, he was inclined to believe that his first suspicion was right - that Neal had laid a false trail, then doubled back. He called again even louder, but no longer expected a reply. He needed to pick up Neal's trail. If he had indeed stayed on this side of the creek, he probably headed upstream, since it would angle him further away from his pursuers.

Peter picked his way along the bank, examining the leaf-strewn ground carefully, trusting that the viscosity of blood would provide a reflective glow that would alert him to its presence. Its discovery would mean he was on the right track, but would also suggest that Neal was more severely injured than he'd hoped. Its absence caused panic to curl hot, bright and draining in his chest, the knot that had tightened in his guts at the impossibility of finding Neal in this vast forest snarling into a warped tangle at the prospect of attempting to locate his unconscious body.

He tasted blood in his mouth before realizing that actually the acrid metallic odor was stinging his nostrils, and the agitation he was experiencing was in some measure a visceral response to that scent that never boded well. Adrenaline spiked as if he'd misstepped in a dream, and it spurred his limbs into motion. The wind was traveling with him, the cold air lifting the sharp tang over the musky detritus of the humus, so he followed it back a couple of steps to a large boulder he'd just passed. Immediately he could see blood glistening black as if it ran thickly over the leaves.

He dropped to his knees, the phone dropping from shaking hands as he started to scrabble through the leaves. He uncovered Neal's shoulder first, protruding uncomfortably out of the hole and he shook it gently.

"Neal, Neal, are you okay?" There was no response, and Peter slid his hand down, brushing the loose detritus away before cupping his cheek. Neal's skin was icy, marbled hard against trembling fingertips, and for a terrifying lacuna of time, Peter was convinced he was dead.

"God, no!" He wasn't even sure if he uttered the plaintive cry, the words sliced to shreds in his throat.

Originally a worthy, challenging adversary, Neal had infiltrated Peter's life, intertwining himself into its everyday structure with characteristic ease. Ducking beneath the barriers erected to maintain a proper distance between CI and agent, he'd popped up at his side as a peer, a best friend. Now he occupied such a vast swathe of Peter's life that this violent excision would leave a gaping crater that could never be filled.

Numb disbelief temporarily held off the yawning chasm of loss as Peter collapsed back on his haunches. Not yet ready to consign Neal's body to the ground, he reached out a listless hand to sweep away the leaves that had become a funeral shroud. His palm encountered a sticky moisture, and in the light of the discarded phone he realized that the fresh scarlet blood staining his fingers was actually positive in a twisted way, since it meant Neal's heart must still be beating.

Peter snatched up the phone to confirm his hopes. In its lurid light, Neal seemed deathly pale, especially in contrast to the vibrant red of his blood. The side of his t-shirt was soaked, the material shining wetly, and Peter rolled it up to reveal a nasty, jagged wound still seeping blood above his hip bone. The amount of blood loss was frightening, but the frigid conditions had probably minimized it to a survivable level. However, either one or both could still kill him. Stopping the bleeding and warming him up were the first and second order of business.

He'd give anything for the bag of supplies Neal had purloined from the lifeboat, but they'd jettisoned it when they'd run. All he had were the few items he'd stuck in the coat pockets while Neal had broken out of the truck. A quick excavation revealed two of the survival blankets neatly wrapped in their small packages, two food bars and one large bandage. It was an unprepossessing inventory, but it would have to suffice.

The notion of Neal's life dependent on the meagre first aid skills he'd acquired through a few mandatory first aid classes had him gritting his teeth against the panic that threatened to well up again. There was nothing to disinfect the wound, which would certainly lead to trouble later. He was tempted to clean Neal with the water running nearby, but it was too cold and could contain microorganisms even more dangerous, so he merely stripped the bandage out of its package and placed it over the wound, pressing gently at first then with more force ,as if by holding the blood in, he could put Neal back together like a real-life Humpty Dumpty. It elicited a faint groan from Neal and a weak movement of protest as he retreated from the escalating pain. His proximity to consciousness was encouraging, and Peter nurtured it by muttering reassurances of his own. He had no idea what he said, probably something inane, but his mind was focused on the short and long-term logistics of keeping his friend alive.

Further exploration showed that the bullet was a through and through, the entry wound a tidy hole low near the side of Neal's back. It didn't seem to be currently bleeding, but that state of affairs would be temporary once Neal started moving. Peter tried to conjure up a picture of the bullet's path and superimpose a picture of organs and skeleton. His best guess was that it had missed all bones but might have grazed a kidney. It was only about a handspan away from the exit wound in the front, but the bandage wasn't that big. He needed something sanitary, and none of their clothes qualified. There was only one possibility and that was the wrapping that Neal had painstakingly bound him in that very morning, which seemed like a lifetime ago.

He unwound himself, then using a knife from Neal's pocket, he hacked off the portion that had been next to his skin. He placed the inside of the wrapper that had held the sterilized bandage against the wound, and tried to wrap the bandage around it, but Neal's position in the hole made it impossible. He needed to haul his friend out and prop him against his knees. Normally that would have been a simple enough proposition, but his own injuries made it barely feasible. He persevered, a painful inch at a time, ignoring the agony that arced through him at the exertion.

He now sympathized with Neal's clumsy wrapping attempts that morning. He calculated that it would take an octopus to do a decent job, or at least a starfish. He needed one hand to hold onto the wrapper, two hands to wield the bandage, and another two to support Neal. Being limited to only two was the equivalent of playing the piano with just one finger, and his artistry was compromised, but he succeeding in cinching it tight in a way that would hopefully stem the bleeding.

He needed to get Neal to a hospital, but he might as well have stated the goal of flying him to Mars; it was just as feasible. If he could, by some Herculean feat, haul Neal onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry, he would almost certainly exacerbate both their injuries. He would carry Neal until he dropped, but the radius of that event was likely to be embarrassingly short. His limbs trembled with fatigue and his mind was hazed, making reasoning an arduous task. Cascade failure was imminent.

He could try to MacGyver some sort of travois to pull Neal behind him, but without duct tape, vines or glue made from deer hooves, there was nothing to hold such a structure together. Even if he were capable of constructing a miracle, the same objections applied. It would be too physically damaging for them both.

He'd been urging Neal to leave him and run for help for several days, but even disregarding the unpalatability of the idea, it was highly doubtful, with blood loss and hyperthermia, that Neal would survive the night even wrapped in their one shared coat. It appeared that, as was so often the case, their fates were entwined. They would survive or die together.

A measure of hypothermia had been his ally when blood loss was the greatest danger, but now warming Neal was his first priority. The coat changed ownership once more, and the needle bite of the frosty air intensified Peter's efforts. He'd enlarged the hole by scraping out the rest of the leaves, then lined it with the first safety blanket.

"You're just waiting for me to do all the hard work, then miraculously you'll regain consciousness, right? So why don't you just skip the suspense and wake up now?" He was still hoping for some sort of response. Neal was never silent for long and had mastered the art of the final word. If only Peter could say something provocative enough, he would force a riposte.

"I think we could call this 5 and 0," he attempted, but it garnered not as much as a twitch, and that ominous stillness forced Peter once more to check that it wasn't permanent, but his numb fingers only taunted him with the hope of a pulse.

"Damn it, Neal." His voice rasped with suppressed emotion. "If you die on me now, I swear I'll find you wherever you go, drag you back and you'll never hear the end of it."

He clambered into the hole, then carefully eased Neal in after him. Lastly, he covered them with the second silver blanket, assiduously tucking it in everywhere he could reach until they resembled a taco packaged for later consumption.

Only a hobbit could call a hole in the ground comfortable. Stones and roots were pushing new contusions into existing bruises. Half of Neal's weight was resting on him, his back to Peter's flank, as he cushioned the younger man and provided a source of heat. Already he could imagine a slight thawing in the frozen body beside him.

He tugged Neal closer, checking tactilely that there was no blood seeping through the bandages. "I'll never live it down if we die cuddling like this," he grumbled. "They probably won't find us for 20 years though and by that time…" He'd intended it as a wry comment, but the thought of El waiting endlessly for news of their fate robbed it of any humor. The thought stirred a stray notion in the depths of his mind, wriggling uneasily and seeking his recognition, but before he could catch it, it was gone.

He'd intended to stay awake and monitor Neal's condition, but his body denied him that option. Exhausted by stress, injury, exertion and repeated adrenaline crashes, it accepted the tentative warmth and rest as a signal to shut down, and all the willpower in the world couldn't prevent it.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's note: It which the plot progresses, but our heroes don't, or at least not very far.

Subterfuge Chapter 13

Consciousness was slow to return. Somehow sensing that the reward for waking would be a renewal of affliction, Neal chose to remain just out of its reach as long as he could, floating in a netherworld of absence. Eventually, however, he strayed too close to the boundary that held back awareness, and it reached over and grabbed him, yanking him unceremoniously into the here and now.

Pain had clearly taken the express route, every nerve suddenly vibrating in crystal-clear agony, and he instinctively struggled to sit up. That was a mistake as instantly his side was gripped in a vice of agony. The constriction seized his lungs, shredding them into useless, fluttering tatters, as red tendrils of pain snaked from his side, throbbing in time with his pulse.

Through his distress, he became aware of a voice, familiar, trusted, and dependable, and he struggled to make out the words.

"Neal, relax. I've got you. And for God's sake take a breath before you pass out again." That had to be Peter, the only person who hectored and reassured in one breath.

A habit of obedience to that voice and the memory of its protection made compliance easy, and he subsided slightly.

"It's too cold for this right now, so snuggle back under this blanket with me. Dear God, those are words I never thought I'd utter."

The huff of laughter that escaped at the wry disbelief of this comment restarted Neal's lungs and relaxed him further, which was probably Peter's intention. He also became aware of just how frigid the air was against any unshielded area and gratefully curled back against Peter's warmth.

In the dim light of early dawn, he recognised their shelter - memories diaphanous and evasive becoming more substantial as his surroundings registered.

"How on earth did you find me?" he exclaimed incredulously - a comment he'd have probably kept to himself if he'd thought more about it.

"It's what I do," Peter answered simply though with a hint of smugness that Neal felt, but would never admit, was justified in this case. He also almost certainly owed his life to Peter's infallible Neal radar.

"I bet you've inflated your total to something ludicrous like 6 and 0," he grumbled, knowing that Peter would see through the pretense of displeasure to read the very real gratitude beneath. There was a slight rumble of laughter behind him...but it could have been hunger. That addendum, Neal realised, came from a recognition of his own need for food, although, on balance, he decided he felt more nauseous and repulsed by the idea of eating.

"How're you feeling?" Peter asked, as if reading his mind, not that uncommon an occurrence. The question was delivered casually, but it wasn't hard to hear the deep concern behind it.

"I'm fine," he answered lightly and inaccurately, partly to provoke a reaction, but more because he didn't want to analyse his physical state too closely, and was too tired and sore to find more accurate words.

He wasn't wrong in anticipating Peter's response. "You wouldn't know fine if it came running at you with a could be holding your guts in with both hands and…" He broke off, choking, then resumed soberly. "That's pretty close to what happened."

Neal had been about to complain about the yelling in his ear, but the change in tone caught his attention.

"I thought you were dead." The whisper would have been inaudible if delivered from any further away, yet it contained so much grief and horror that, in an instant of empathic transference, Neal could see his own body lying blood soaked and still at Peter's feet. A wave of horrified nausea overwhelmed him, preventing him from interrupting the next confession.

"I'd never forgive myself for that."

It was an admission of just how close the two of them had become, and Neal appreciated the intimate glimpse it offered into the mind of a private man. It broke the thrall of his near-death experience, allowing him to refocus on his partner.

"I've had worse," he offered tentatively, aiming for palliative, but missing by a mile. He could practically feel the glower behind his back.

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" Peter asked quellingly.

"I don't think it hit anything important, so it's really quite minor as bullet wounds go," Neal stated meekly, but his olive branch was slapped down by a blast of withering sarcasm.

"Yes, I'm sure this is the children's version, this episode brought to you by the letter bloody and the number lots."

Neal always enjoyed Peter at his most sarcastic even when it was aimed at him, and couldn't resist reaching out and gently prodding the beast. "Well, given the choice between being shot and not shot, I'd definitely take the non-perforated option."

Peter exhaled loudly through his nose, quivering like a bull ready to charge. Remembering that sarcasm was a gauge of the agent's stress level, Neal threw out a sop to his blood pressure. "As long as I keep still and nobody pokes me in the wrong place, it's not too bad." If 'not bad' was defined as being run through with a red-hot poker, but he didn't feel the need to share that image. Peter was fluent enough in Neal-speak to translate it readily.

"So if we take a 'not too bad', multiply it by a factor of ten, carry the three, we get 'hurts pretty damn badly.' What would you say to the offer of a painkiller?"

He might as well have asked a drowning man if he would fancy some air. Neal was trying to think of a way to accept that didn't betray desperation, when he suddenly remembered why they were carrying painkillers.

The memory of Peter's injuries temporarily erased the awareness of his own, and he started to twist around to check on his partner. The world exploded in shards of agony, a billion synapses flaring at once. When the pyrotechnic display faded to misfiring sputters of the nerve endings, he could feel Peter gripping his shoulder sympathetically. The agent spoke in a mild and overly restrained way that suggested that only a tenuous control was preventing him from an epic detonation.

"I'll take that as a 'yes' then. The only available water is in the stream. Can you swallow them dry?"

Not wanting to jeopardize his progress, Neal nodded very gingerly and received the two pills that Peter fumbled into his palm. He couldn't muster much saliva, so felt the analgesics slide unpleasantly, inch by inch, down his throat. When he was sure he wasn't going to throw them up again, he had some pointed questions of his own.

"Aren't you supposed to be playing Cheetah in a tree a couple of miles away from here?"

"Trust me. I was perching like a pro, very ninja squirrel, watching the bad guys scamper by underneath, considerately chasing you. Then it occurred to me that you might not have a plan to find your way back seeing as how _you_ don't have much experience in finding _me_."

"I had plans," Neal protested. "I always have plans."

"Workable plans," Peter amended. "Plans that didn't involve night vision or some deus ex machina."

"Maybe I have you lojacked. Did you think of that?"

Peter hadn't, and he contemplated the possibility for a few seconds. It had a certain symmetry to it, a tit-for-tat reciprocity that he could see appealing to Mozzie who almost certainly had the technology to achieve it - probably from the Russians. If he hadn't been undercover for so long, making such an action impossible, he might have believed it, but Neal's phrasing also confirmed he was prevaricating.

"Since I don't see any jewelry on my ankles, and I didn't feel you drilling into my teeth, I'm going to go with no."

"It could be in the coat," Neal suggested, the hypothetical problem helping to distract him, at least temporarily, from his more immediate vicissitudes.

"If you could genuinely send out any kind of signal, I'm sure short, bald and paranoid would be hovering over us right now, asking why we were nestling in this hole and what my intentions are towards you."

Deciding to ignore the content of the majority of the sentence, Neal touched on the least contentious point. "Mozzie doesn't do woods." Then he quickly refocused on the more pressing issues. "However, while we're talking about plans, do you have any, or are you thinking of perching here until one of us lays an egg?"

"As enticing a prospect as that would be," Peter responded drily. "I'm mainly waiting for the sun to come up and warm the proceedings. Neither of us is in excellent condition, and with only one potentially bugged coat between us, I'm not going to risk exposure as one or both of us traipse through these godforsaken woods."

"One or both sounds delightfully ominous." Neal would have liked to turn around and glare to reinforce his point, but no one could say he was a slow learner. He kept his muscles relaxed and the pain level manageable. To express his displeasure, he feigned misunderstanding. "As tempting as it must be for you to stay safe and warm here while I go off for help, I have no intention of leaving you."

Peter's sigh was inaudible, but the breath stirred the hairs on the back of Neal's neck.

"Neal," he said in a soft, patient voice that clearly still hoped to appeal to common sense. "You've been shot and lost, I think the technical term is, a bucketload of blood and been unconscious for eight hours. I need to get you to a hospital, but you're in no condition for a protracted hike."

In an identical tone, Neal shot back. "I think you've forgotten that only about 36 hours ago you had, I think the technical term is, the crap kicked out of you."

"My bruises thank you for the reminder. I'll confess I'm stiff and sore, but that's not incapacitating, just...moderating."

Neal could feel the resolution emanating from behind him. Deciding that it was impossible to prove his capabilities while cowering in a hole, he gingerly sat upright. The pain in his side pulsed and writhed, but he refused to capitulate to its demands. He tried not to inflict more damage on Peter with flailing elbows and knees as he dragged himself out of the hole to sit on the sloping edge.

He tried to relax enough for his body language to convey insouciant disregard for such minor inconveniences as bullet wounds, but he suspected it was a forlorn hope. Peter always had an uncanny and disconcerting ability to see past even his most robust facades, and now that gimlet gaze was focused on him with laser precision, analysing every twitch and hold of muscle.

"Is it still bleeding?" Peter gestured for Neal to undo the coat and he reluctantly complied, carefully lifting his sweater to reveal the bandage underneath. He made no effort to squint down at himself, since any contraction of the midriff would bring instant retribution. He took advantage of Peter's preoccupation to complete his own limited scrutiny.

Now that he could finally see his friend, he was dismayed by Peter's appearance. The swelling around his eye had subsided marginally, but only by draining in lurid purple streaks into his eye socket and cheekbone, while sallow skin peeked through the gaps between bruising and stubble. That was just the visible damage. SInce he was huddling under one of the emergency blankets, the full extent of his injuries was largely hidden.

The toll of the last few days, or perhaps even months, could be seen in the weariness etched deep in the creases of his face. The sun had risen above the horizon and was making a feeble attempt to break through the blanketing gloom of the trees, and the shadows dappling his face emphasised the gaunt lines. Yet there was still strength and a steadiness of purpose in his bearing, despite the unhealed injuries and drawn face. Neal felt a helpless wave of affection for the man who had become such a stable counterweight in his restless life.

"It doesn't seem to be bleeding, but I've got nothing to replace the bandage with even if it was." It was far from an ideal state of affairs for Peter.

"As I said, I'm fine."

"For a given value of fine. Look, our options are limited. I can carry you or drag you or…"

"I can walk out of here on my own two feet," Neal interrupted testily.

"How far do you think you'd get?" Peter demanded.

"Further than you, old man." The light of challenge was in Neal's eye. He didn't think it was necessarily true, but understood that the competition would keep them both going.

He could tell by the martial look from Peter that the challenge was accepted. "And if you collapse and I end up carrying you, then you have to tell me the story of how you stole the Rodin."

"But if you hit the floor first, you have to tell me how you picked up my trail again in New Orleans." Neal volleyed back.

"Deal. I'd shake on it, but that would be cheating since that much jostling would end your attempt right here."

"This from the man who's barely managed to move a finger this morning."

"No, it's from the man wearing a vest in sub zero temperatures. I'm going to maintain as much body heat under this blanket as I can...No, hold it right there." The command stopped Neal in his tracks as he tried to take off his coat. "You try to remove that, I'll turn it around and make it into a straitjacket."

"But at least I'm wearing a thick sweater underneath," Neal protested.

"You're also on the edge of hypovolemic shock. Don't worry, I can fashion something serviceable out of this blanket. But before we get on the road, I think we should have breakfast." With a flourish worthy of David Copperfield, he pulled two meal bars out from under the blanket. "Actually, considering how slowly we'll be moving, this is probably lunch and dinner too." One of the bars disappeared.

Neal stared mournfully at the meagre portion of food sitting on his palm. It looked extraordinarily unappetizing, a solid beige square resembling a motel-provided bar of soap, useful more as a doorstop than a meal. It probably tasted similar too, but emergency rations had the highly concentrated caloric value they would need to survive, so he nibbled unenthusiastically at a waxy corner. It wasn't inedible, the artificial flavor of coconut preventing the dense substance from being tasteless, but it was light years from the gourmet food to which he was accustomed.

He choked it down with an unconvincing, "Yummy." Peter's reaction didn't seem any more animated.

"Coconut-flavored wood shavings would be as tasty. Well, they say hunger is the best sauce."

"Sadly, I'm not hungry." He was still too nauseous to crave food, but the chances of that admission leaving his lips was on par with a signed confession to stealing Van Gogh's _Poppy Flowers_.

Peter didn't question the statement, tension and discomfort suppressing his own appetite. "I think our main concern at this point is a way to carry water. I don't suppose you have a couple of flasks or bottles hidden on your person?"

Neal grimaced. "Not as much as a thimble."

"That's okay. We'll try this the new old-fashioned way." Wrapping the mylar around himself, Peter levered himself up and, moving stiffly, seated himself next to Neal. Picking up the second sheet with a finger and thumb, he used Neal's knife to start a rip, then tore the blanket into thirds. Two of these he cut in half again, and the last he handed to Neal with instructions to tear it into strips.

He fashioned one of his own pieces into a crude pouch, then stood up unsteadily, taking a few wavering steps to the stream. Once there, he stared pensively down at the water. Neal sympathized. Bending over with bruised or broken ribs was an activity to be avoided, on a par with having your liver tattooed. Keeping his torso as rigid as possible, Peter knelt beside the water and filled his makeshift bag.

Returning to his previous seat, he offered his prize to Neal, who accepted it, but hesitated before drinking, unsure both as to the wisdom of consuming a possibly contaminated liquid and the logistics of quaffing from the unconventional flask. However, his lips were chapped and dry, thirst sucking greedily on already parched membranes, probably a side effect of his blood loss.

"It's probably safe to drink," Peter offered, anticipating his question. "Besides, even if it is polluted with giardia, the symptoms take 48 hours to develop, and by that time you'll be in a hospital being treated with antibiotics."

"That's an enticing prospect." Neal eyed the water dubiously, peering into its depths as if he could detect the microscopic organisms.

"I think at this point dehydration is more dangerous...as long as you're not bleeding badly internally." At Neal's slightly panicked glance, he hastily added. "Not that I think that's likely. I think you'd know if you were, but for God's sake tell me if you start feeling worse."

Neal carefully dribbled a small amount into his mouth and swallowed. It was blissfully refreshing sliding down his throat, and he resolutely didn't picture tiny amoebae swimming gleefully along with it. He took a slightly larger gulp and then another.

"Whoa, slow down," warned Peter. "GIve it time to settle or it'll come right back up again."

Just the suggestion made Neal's stomach lurch, but he fought down the urge to vomit, concentrating instead on the relief of his thirst.

It was an unconventional and unprepossessing breakfast, and even that tested the limits of what his stomach could tolerate, but once it had settled, he felt considerably stronger for it. The mylar proved to be a remarkably versatile material. Peter fashioned a passable poncho, then filled his four makeshift pouches with water, tying them up with the strips then fastening them to his belt. It wasn't a large reserve of water, but it should be sufficient to tide them over until they reached civilization. Neal was impressed by Peter's ingenuity and wondered if he'd learned it as a Boy Scout or in some FBI survival class.

They took off at a slow pace, a stark contrast to the headlong rush that had taken them there. In fact, slow was an understatement, an insult to snails everywhere. Their progress up that first hill was positively glacial, more of a creep than recognisable momentum. Peter hovered close to him, but didn't try to offer assistance, an anomaly that Neal charitably attributed to the agent's own injuries rather than a desire to win their wager.

It was only about 12 hours ago that Peter had been the one needing support, and that was demonstrably still the case. He walked gingerly, his whole body tense, one arm bracing his ribs while his face was pinched and taut with the strain of activity. He was gritting his teeth so hard, the tendons in his neck were standing out and his mouth was pressed into a white-cornered slash of pain. It was hard for Neal to relinquish the role of caretaker in the face of its necessity, but keeping himself upright and moving took every ounce of energy he possessed.

Every labored step jarred his side, and lancing pain accompanied every strained breath. His tentative, unsteady movements mirrored Peter's, the two of them lurching in unison as if they had imprinted on each other like a pair of particularly mimetic injured ducks. The only thing that was keeping them both on their feet was pure stubbornness, hatred of failure, and their own unique brand of competitiveness.

Energy was allocated for muscle fibres, oxygen rationed for breathing, so conversation lagged. However, Peter insisted on frequent breaks - Neal only objected since he was afraid that, once seated, he would never get up again - and that allowed the occasional desultory exchange of words.

"Are we heading back to the rest stop?"

"I'm not sure. There's a good chance there'll be a welcome committee waiting for us, but we need to get to a phone."

"We could hitchhike."

"Who would pick us up? Look at us. We look like zombies at the end of a slasher film."

"So who're you going to call?"

"Can you get hold of Mozzie?"

Neal soon lost track of time, the Sisyphean effort of placing one foot in front of the other took up all his focus. Air rasped harshly down his raw throat and the pounding rhythm of pain blinded him to anything else, so he allowed little bumps and tugs from Peter to guide him past stumbling blocks and impalement threats. Lack of energy was not usually a problem for him, but the bullet had created a neat passageway, a conduit through which his vitality seemed to flow, escaping his body, puffing out in airy gouts and dissipating in the still-frosty air. He was weakening rapidly, his feet dead weights anchoring him to the ground. Tripping was an inevitability, and only a strong arm prevented him from pitching headlong. Steady hands lowered him to the ground.

"Damn it, Neal. That's enough, you need a real rest. Take a sip of water and lie down.

We're not too far away from the highway; I'm sure I can hear trucks on the road."

There was something about that statement that was worrying, but before Neal could even work out what, he grabbed for Peter's arm, succeeding more by instinct than good hand/eye coordination since his vision and limbs weren't on speaking terms.

"Don't leave me." It wasn't what he'd intended to say. He'd intended to explain that it was too dangerous for Peter to go alone and that he wasn't in any better condition to continue with the journey, but apparently there were too many words in that sentence and his brain had taken a short cut.

There was a flash of hurt in Peter's eyes. "I don't leave people behind," he said shortly. "If you think I would leave you here, then you really don't know me very well."

Neal curled his fingers tighter trying to explain, but the words are too elusive. Even if he could find them through the fog in his mind, it was unlikely he could push them past the desert of his mouth.

Yet despite his own injuries, Peter was still a walking beacon of calm reassurance. "Just relax. I'll be right here."

It was the middle of the day, but darkness appeared to close in, red lines striping the back of his eyelids, pulsating in time to his heartbeat. Awareness faded with the next exhalation.

An indeterminate time later, his senses once more struggled back online. There was a bird cawing remarkably close by, and the crisp smell of the frosty air, which was occasionally overwhelmed by the rancid amalgamation of sweat and blood. His limbs were numb, or at least he didn't have the energy necessary to move them. The marginal warmth that accompanied the brightness on his face suggested sunshine, and his eyelids fluttered in an attempt to open them.

"Neal?" Peter's voice motivated him to crack a lid slightly in an attempt to focus on his immediate vicinity, but the blur of chaotic scenery necessitated a swift visual retreat.

"Neal?" This time Peter poked him tentatively on the shoulder as if to see if he still worked.

"M'okay," Neal managed. "But I think something died in my mouth."

"Well, sit up and have a drink, but let me do the work. Don't tense up." It was an impossible command to follow, his muscles automatically bracing to support his weight, causing a screaming tear of pain to rip across his side then radiate through his body, every cell aching is if from the bends. He couldn't prevent the gasp that escaped his lips.

To his relief, Peter said nothing, but his grip tightened in sympathy. With a helpless groan, Neal slumped forward, resting his forehead on Peter's shoulder and allowing that calm support to start the process of persuading rigid, gnarled muscles to release their stranglehold.

After a while, Peter spoke, clearly aiming for distraction. "So, I was thinking about this whole mess."

Neal managed an interrogative sound.

"The more I think about it, the less sense it makes." Peter's voice rumbled the chest Neal was leaning against, a strangely comforting sensation. "There has to be more to this than meets the eye. There is no way Tomkins would be cooperating with Abramov in a terrorist attack, and what would Abramov gain from a terrorist attack in the first place?"

A discussion about terrorism should not be relaxing, but the tension was easing from Neal's body, and the pain was receding with it. Cautiously, he pushed away from Peter, allowing the older man to prop him against a convenient tree.

Water relieved the desperate ache in his throat and detached his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He accepted the pills that Peter handed him, swallowing them with a grimace and chasing them down with the last drops of water from their penultimate pouch.

"Why go after the water supply?" he offered. "There must be easier, more effective targets."

"That's a good question. I wonder if Abramov has invested in bottled water or filters. I expect he could make millions, but then why call the FBI in?" Peter settled himself gingerly against a tree of his own a few feet away.

"Maybe he wanted them on alert. What do the FBI do when there's a terrorist attack?"

"You mean, is this a Die Hard situation. Will we turn off the electricity somewhere and enable them to steal a fortune in bearer bonds. 'Gentlemen, I give you the FBI!' Well, it's an idea. Certainly, the FBI would be mobilized. Maybe it's a decoy and he just wants to pull the FBI off of some other operation."

Neal shifted his weight, attempting to find a more comfortable position among the twigs and stones. "He wouldn't need to go after the water supply for that. Any terrorist threat would do. There has to be a reason he chose the water. It's certainly possible he stands to make a fortune on the stock market, but I'd bet it's more deliberate than that. Who would be most affected by the poisoning or threat of poisoning of the water?"

Peter gave it some thought. "Hospitals?" he posited dubiously.

"An elaborate assassination plot," Neal continued whimsically. "A rival mobster needs a heart transplant and is poisoned by the water during the operation."

"Probably not," Peter conceded. "Although it's about as plausible as anything else we've got. God, Neal, even if just a rumor of this gets out, there'll be mass panic. This is New York City. Eight and a half million people desperate for water. It would be worse than chaos. It would be anarchy."

"Dogs and cats living together...mass hysteria," Neal quoted.

Peter ignored his contribution. "It would shut everything down - the financial district, tourism, even the transportation system."

"Isn't that the definition of a terrorist attack? It would cause terror, hurting the economy, consumer confidence, disrupting everyday life."

"So now we're back to generic terrorist attack? Let's backtrack for a minute. There are three questions we're trying to answer." Peter counted them off on his fingers. "One, what does Abramov have to gain. Two, why would Tomkins help him. Three, why did he insist on my involvement."

Neal picked on the last issue as the most promising. "They requested you personally, right?"

"Yes, despite the fact that I don't work in counterterrorism. Abramov claimed I was the only agent he could trust, and he wouldn't work with anyone else."

"There's probably some truth to that. They knew you were incorruptible and could depend on that. Maybe you were the only person he knew whom he could rely on to pick up on the plot without being handed it on a silver platter. I presume it had to seem plausible."

"He planned to assassinate me as soon as I reported my discoveries to Headquarters. That way they had a verified threat without necessarily intending to carry it through. We have no idea what was actually in those barrels. I'm a patsy," Peter concluded with disgust.

"An expendable patsy," Neal expanded on the theme. "Why would Tomkins sanction that? Does he have some sort of grudge against you?"

"We've never really crossed paths before this operation. It's possible I was chosen not just because I have a previous connection with Abramov but also because I have one of the highest solve rates in the FBI, so a report of this sort by me would garner high scrutiny."

"So, with a credible report from a highly respected agent, there wouldn't actually have to be an attack. Tomkins wouldn't be complicit in a terrorist attack."

"No, but it would scare the department and the government into giving Tomkins more power and more funding, exactly what he wanted to tackle a problem he so passionately endorsed. All it would take was…" Peter broke off.

"The sacrifice of one agent," Neal finished for him. He could feel the sick horror emanating from his partner. Peter loved the FBI, believed in its mission and was willing to make sacrifices for its goals, but had always kept his integrity at the forefront. To be betrayed by the organisation he held dear was a bitter pill to swallow. It wasn't the first time they'd found a bad apple contaminating the barrel, but it had never been so personal, so brutal. "Maybe Tomkins didn't know," he offered lamely. "It's possible he thought you'd report it and get out, never the wiser."

"He knew. Oh, he might have salved his conscience that way, but at some level he had to have known that Abramov couldn't let me live after seeing his operation."

"So, we have Abramov at the reservoir with barrels of poison." Neal tried to lighten the atmosphere. "But what's in it for him apart from the goodwill of the Bureau?"

"He's got a sweet deal all worked out. He made sure he framed the Russian mob - his main competitors. The FBI will come down on them as alleged terrorists like a ton of bricks, wiping them out of the area and leaving the territory for the Chechens. I'd bet he has some other angle as well. After all, having orchestrated a mass panic, he could profit in a multitude of ways on the stock market from that foreknowledge. And it's not just financial; he could consolidate his power considerably as well."

"What about the prisons?" Neal asked suddenly.

"Of course!" Peter immediately ran with the idea. "With the water supply compromised, they'd either have to ship water in or move the inmates to another location. It would be the perfect time for a prison break. It wouldn't surprise me if he has some men awaiting trial on Riker's Island."

It was so familiar, the percussive drum roll exchanges. Of course, Peter would usually be on his feet, arms waving the orchestration of his team, his physical energy seeming to power the speed of his mind. This was why Neal loved working with Peter, each of them a vibrant flint striking sparks off the other that built into a cascading shower of illumination. This is where their minds engaged, the cogs meshing to great mechanical advantage, powering them further and faster. Yet, by some shape-shifting, multitasking miracle, Peter was not only the launchpad for Neal to fly high, but also the safety net to catch him.

It was one of the inherent paradoxes of their relationship that Peter could be both a dazzling catalyst and a grounding presence in his life. The anklet might be the physical tether, but Peter was his anchor, the stabilizing force of home and family. This type of steadying influence had been lacking from his life - as great a friend as Mozzie was, steadying wasn't an adjective that could be accurately applied to him.

Ultimately, it wasn't the flimsy hold of the tracking device that kept him rooted in New York; Peter's hold on him was intangible, but ultimately far stronger and reciprocal, an inexorable bond forged of shared danger, mutual respect and affection. It entwined them, a double helix of infinity, a symbiotic link. They would need to rely on that connection and every ounce of their combined ingenuity to get out of the mess they were in, especially considering their injuries.

"It's a great theory," Neal said at last. "But how do we prove it? Especially since they seem to have thought of everything, and planned it meticulously."

"They didn't plan for everything. There's one very important factor they left out of their machinations, and that's you. It would never have occurred to them that someone they dismissed as a common criminal would have more loyalty and integrity in his little finger than they possessed in entirety."

Peter's pride and approval finally banished the last of Neal's doubts concerning his unmasking of Peter as an FBI agent. He might not have reconciled his own reservations, but it was absolutely clear that Peter did not share them, and that enabled Neal to start forgiving himself.

"You mean, they didn't count on your survival," he retorted, trying to conceal the warm glow he felt at Peter's approbation. "No wonder they're working so frantically to eliminate you; you're the fly in the ointment, the monkey in the wrench."

"More Die Hard quotes?"

"What can I say, it's Mozzie's favorite Christmas movie!"

Peter looked envious. "El insists on watching Miracle on 34th St. She...says…" His voice trailed off while his face took on the intense but slightly abstracted concentration of a man trying to catch an elusive thought that had wafted just out of reach. Then the guillotine dropped. The blood drained from his face with unbelievable suddenness, leaving him with the deathly pallor of a condemned man.

"El! How could I be so stupid! When I thought I was working undercover, I assumed she was safe, that there was no connection between us. But if Tomkins is truly behind this, he knows everything about me. His men picked me up at our house. He must know all he has to do to find me is threaten her. She's in danger!"


	14. Chapter 14

Author's note: Sorry for the delay! Who was thinking of El before that reveal? That will provide motivation for our two heroes. Enjoy!

Subterfuge Chapter 14

Peter's heart stopped. There was no missed beat or faltering rhythm. As the realisation of his miscalculations and their possible consequences hit him, it simply stopped beating in his chest. His blood pressure tanked, and if he'd been standing, gravity would have overcome his weakened frame, yanking him bonelessly to the ground. The fear in his mouth was as cold and bitter as gunmetal, the fuzzy edges of reality tinged with desperation.

He was by nature a man of action - stress merely sharpened his mind and quickened his reflexes - but danger to his wife was his Achilles heel. The perils and calamities of his job should never touch her, and while it was almost impossible to escape the long shadow cast by working at the FBI, and he regretted the worry he caused her, there was a line between job and home that was almost never crossed. On those rare occasions when his two worlds intersected, when he was responsible for exposing his wife to the horrors of human predation, the vertiginous wrongness of it left him nauseous and disoriented and temporarily unable to think beyond worst-case scenarios.

He never doubted her courage or her capabilities, but he was all too aware of the depths to which men like Keller and Abramov could sink.

"Peter!" He hadn't even been aware of Neal moving, but the younger man was standing in front of him extending a hand that Peter had no intention of taking, knowing the pain Neal must be in from his injuries. He scrambled unsteadily to his feet, head swimming dangerously as physical stress was added to emotional shock.

"I have to…" he started, but then stopped, not exactly sure what he had to do apart from the sole goal of finding and protecting El.

"I know." Neal's understanding was like a physical boost, a necessary shot in the arm that helped clear the mists of panic that clouded his mind. "Look I'm just going to slow you down, so you take off, and I'll make my own way."

For a brief moment, Peter considered the possibility, knowing it would satisfy the urgency that burned so fervently within him, but staring at the pale, huddled figure before him, the idea repulsed him.

"No," he stated firmly. "Not happening."

"But," Neal began, and Peter could almost see his fertile mind thumbing through a rolodex of his most persuasive arguments.

"Don't," he interrupted loudly, cutting Neal short. Then, more softly, he added, "I know you were largely out of our conversation yesterday, but I hope you remember me telling you that I don't leave people behind, especially not my best friend, and that goes double with a cherry on top when said friend is leaking blood from a gunshot wound he acquired saving my life. No, nope, nada."

"But El…" Neal tried weakly.

"No," Peter reiterated. He took as deep a breath as his ribs allowed, oxygenating those parts of his brain that wanted to gibber wildly, fighting to let reasoning overcome emotion. "I don't know for sure that El is in danger. Tomkins used to be a good agent; there must be lines he wouldn't cross, and even if they do…" He battened down thoughts of the mayhem he wanted to commit at the image, "...They don't want to hurt her, they just want to use her as a bargaining chip to get to me."

The truth was that the threat to El was hypothetical, unsubstantiated, but the danger facing Neal was irrefutable. Even if the bullet had hit nothing vital, as appeared to be the case, infection was an inevitability given the conditions of his care since it had happened. Getting Neal to a hospital had to be his priority. Neal had jeopardised his future freedom by slipping his anklet in the first place, then risked his life by plunging into the core of one of the most dangerous organised crime families. Lastly, he'd been shot after leaving Peter in safety to draw the gunmen off after himself. This was a trifecta of heroism and self-sacrifice that Peter had no intention of disregarding.

Neal still looked distressed, but Peter had no doubts as to the rightness of his actions, and when Neal attempted one last protest, he cut him off brusquely. "Save your breath for walking," he advised. "This is non-negotiable."

They set off at a much faster pace than they had previously achieved, mental anguish lending the side-benefit of overriding physical limitations and deadening pain. It took an effort not to chivvy Neal to walk faster, but the younger man was obviously pushing himself past the edge of endurance, and was in imminent danger of collapse.

They grew more cautious as the sounds of traffic grew louder, but their immediate concerns proved unnecessary, since they missed the rest stop by a fair distance. Peter peered out longingly from behind the cover of the trees at the edge of the highway.

"I'd love to try hitchhiking, but anyone willing to pick up a disreputable, disheveled, blood-stained pair like us would have to be certifiable. They're more likely to call the police. I think we should...Neal!"

Neal was sliding down the trunk of a tree with a surprised look on his face, as if he had no idea that gravity could exert a downward force. He was breathing rapidly, little broken gasps that signalled distress.

With clumsy fingers, Peter fumbled with the buttons to Neal's coat, already knowing what he'd find. The large, gory stain confirmed his suspicions. He tried to keep his voice steady as he informed his friend, "You're bleeding again. That's it, I'm calling the police."

Neal looked confused at his production of a phone. "What...why don't you call Moz or El?"

"I can't," Peter explained. "It's not my phone. I...borrowed it and it's locked, so the only calls I can make are to emergency services."

Neal reached out weakly and pushed Peter's hand away from the phone. "You can't. You know you can't. Tomkins will have an alert out for anything happening in this area, and Abramov's men are bound to be near, and he'll make sure they get to us first."

Neal was right; it was a risk they couldn't take. "I don't suppose you could hack it, could you?" Peter asked hopefully.

Neal gave a miniscule shake of the head. "Beyond my capabilities," he admitted.

Peter stared down at him for a minute, hating his own inability to help his wife or friend, frustration battling fear for dominance, but ultimately, indecision was a foreign state for him, and he carved a course from the slim choices available. "Well, there's one thing you can do," he declared staunchly, "and that's steal a car."

If he'd had a drink available at that moment, Neal could have performed an excellent spit take, but he had to satisfy himself with an exaggerated jaw drop. "You're right. I need a hospital. The bullet in my side seems to have damaged my hearing. I thought I heard the straight-laced, law-abiding agent inciting me to commit a crime."

"I have authority as an officer of the law," Peter stated primly, "to commandeer any vehicle in times of crisis. I defy anyone to convince me that this isn't the perfect time to exercise that prerogative."

Neal closed his eyes, levity gone. "Bring me a car, and I'll be only too happy to perform my civic duty under the aegis of the FBI."

Peter scowled down at him, trying to hide his apprehension behind a gruff, competent exterior. "I need to stop the bleeding first."

Neal looked at him with trepidation. "You better not be thinking of cauterization," he growled. "If you so much as wave a match in my direction, I'm going to scream like a baby."

Peter blanched. "God, no." If it had been absolutely necessary, he hoped he'd have had the testicular fortitude to perform that operation, but the mere concept was enough to churn his stomach into bilious goulash. "I just need to put some pressure on it."

"Oh! That sounds…" Neal tried to search for the right word. He wanted to say 'comparatively innocuous' but, in truth, the mere thought of someone even touching his side was enough to shake his resolve. "...unpleasant," he finished weakly. "Can I pass?"

"You'll pass out if you don't," Peter stated bluntly. "Next time, don't get yourself shot." It might have sounded unsympathetic, but it was more of a plea than a criticism.

"Yeah, thanks, I'll get right on that," Neal promised.

Once again faced with a lack of medical materials, Peter turned to his convenient, stalwart substitute and tore a long strip off his poncho. Despite its ease of tearing, it had a high tensile strength, and he could tie it tightly round Neal's side, reinforcing the pressure from his bandage.

He knelt awkwardly behind Neal, carefully checking the position of the dressing, remembering the horrible vulnerability of that punctured hole in Neal's flesh, the wound that he wouldn't have if he hadn't been protecting Peter. Neal's skin was radiating a dangerous warmth, a rosy flush suggesting an inchoate fever, and if he could see underneath the gauze, Peter suspected the wound would be inflamed and irritated.

Desperately reluctant to inflict more pain, he kept his movements tentative as he wrapped the mylar round his friend, but eventually he had to cinch it tight. Pulling it snug, he hesitated, his stomach twisting in dread.

"Neal?" he asked helplessly, unable to proceed without his CI's consent. He could feel Neal's muscles quivering under the skin.

"Do it."

He wasn't about to cause more distress by leaving Neal in miserable anticipation, so he firmly drew it tight, trying to ignore the muffled groan that issued from Neal's throat. Keeping the pressure constant, he quickly tied a knot, shoulders sagging in relief as he finished.

He scooted round in front of Neal to assess the impact of his impromptu medical procedure. Hectic red patches on his friend's cheeks contrasted with the waxy pallor of his face, but the corners of his mouth, while taut and white were turned up in a spirited attempt at a smile.

"Have you thought about a future as a chiropractor?" His voice cracked like brittle sandpaper, betraying the toll the last minute had taken.

"Actually I was thinking about trying my hand at trepanation," Peter retorted, his own voice not entirely steady.

"Because I need a hole in my head to match those elsewhere?"

Peter's hand came down on his CI's head, gently ruffling his hair. "I was going to suggest it would help to let the mischief out, but, on second thoughts, I like you as you are, no changes necessary."

It was a validation that Neal didn't even know he'd needed. Essentially a fatherless boy, he'd lacked a strong male figure for his entire life, and was self-aware enough to realize that that history partly accounted for the warm glow engendered by the approbation. His relationship with Peter was at times complicated, but he always respected him and had grown to love him as a friend and mentor.

"You can't say nice things to me when I'm bleeding," he joked, in an effort to deny what the words meant to him. "It makes me think I must be on my deathbed and you're giving me a premature eulogy."

He expected Peter to throw back a sarcastic quip, and was more alarmed than gratified, afraid his facetious words were actually true, when Peter sank down beside him.

"Then I'm doing something wrong. I should tell you more often how proud I am of you, your integrity and courage. I couldn't have managed this operation without you. In fact, without your assistance, I would almost certainly be dead and Abramov and Tomkins would be rolling out their plan unchecked. Your..." He caught sight of the deliberately smug look on Neal's face and gave a disgruntled sigh. "Now I remember why I don't do this. If your head got any more swollen, your favorite hat wouldn't fit on it, and who I am to deprive New York of such a fashion statement?"

Peter rose stiffly to his feet again. "Take another couple of pills and finish off the water. I'm going to find a vehicle for you to … appropriate." Hating the idea of leaving for even a few minutes, but accepting the necessity, he made mental notes of landmarks to ensure he could find Neal again, then forged a path parallel to the road, working his way towards the rest stop. He removed the eye-catching poncho to avoid undue attention, but, aware that a man in a blood-stained dirty vest in sub-zero temperatures would still attract scrutiny, he kept out of sight as much as possible.

For once, luck was on their side, and he stumbled across a trailhead parking lot with three cars nestled in it. Their engines were cold, confirming they'd been left there for a substantial time. Marvelling that people would choose to hike in these bitter conditions, he nevertheless inwardly thanked them for their peripatetic habits. He quickly backtracked to Neal and helped him along their makeshift trail to the car park.

"Pick a car, any car." He waved expansively at the limited choices.

Neal shuffled over to an ancient Toyota Camry. "It may not be flashy, but ease of access compensates for its looks." He waved a banishing hand at Peter. "Go stand someplace else. It's hard to maintain plausible deniability if you stand here and watch me break into it."

Peter's feet stayed firmly in place, only his eyebrow making a bid for freedom. "You're forgetting. You're breaking in under my orders. This is my responsibility, and I will not let this be part of your record whatever happens."

"Well, if you insist on being an accomplice, be a useful one and stand lookout."

Reluctantly, Peter moved away, attempting to block a view of Neal from cars passing on the highway, but feeling more guilty and conspicuous than he had standing beside Neal committing a felony. He'd only just settled into a pose that exuded casualness but didn't exacerbate the pain in his ribs, when the sound of an engine starting allowed him to leave his post and hurry back. Neal was sitting rigidly in the passenger seat, so Peter slid gingerly behind the wheel. The wires dangling from the dashboard were a visible reminder of Neal's recent activity.

"Nice job," he said briefly.

Neal gave a slight chuckle. "Only too happy to commit crimes on behalf of the Bureau."

"Let me say this again," Peter patiently reminded him as he backed out of the parking space. "It's not a crime if you're working under the auspices of the FBI."

"If it walks like a duck and safecracks like a duck…"

"Duck crimes - wonderful."

Deciding that Peter needed distraction from his worries about El's safety, Neal sank to a pun. "Crimes most fowl."

Peter groaned. "I can't believe you said that."

"Give me the phone while you drive. I'll try to crack the passcode."

"I thought you said you didn't have the technical expertise for that."

"I don't, but most people choose something easy to remember like 1234. I don't suppose you know the owner's birthday, do you?"

"No, never really met him." Knowing Neal's hatred of violence, Peter thought it politic not to mention the ultimate fate of the man Neal had shot in the leg. He didn't want that to fester on his CI's conscience. He concentrated on the drive back to New York, largely ignoring Neal's mutters of increasing frustration.

Finally, the young man tossed the phone onto the back seat with an exclamation of annoyance. "It's easier in theory than practice. I guess."

"There must be some gas stations that still have pay phones, so I'll be on the lookout. Meanwhile, it'll be a couple of hours before we get home, so take a nap."

Neal didn't need much coaxing to close his eyes, exhaustion knocking him out almost instantly. Although Peter also felt the lumbering drag of fatigue, it was counteracted by the mental analeptic of concern for El, and he ran multiple scenarios through his head, trying to anticipate possible threats and determine feasible solutions. He luxuriated in the warmth of the heater, the first time in 48 hours that his bones hadn't ached with cold. It also relaxed his muscles which eased the pain of his bruises.

Despite the temptation to speed, he meticulously kept to three miles an hour over the limit, knowing that if they attracted the attention of a traffic cop, they'd finish their journey in the back of a squad car. Even if they could conceal Neal's bullet wound, his own injuries were impossible to camouflage and would immediately arouse suspicion that would end in arrest when he failed to produce any identification. However, he yearned to press his foot down, his worry for Neal keeping pace with that for El.

Frequent glances to his right revealed an uncharacteristically disheveled Neal, his hair, lacking it's jaunty styling, a lank tangle plastered to his forehead, eyelashes dark and sooty on gaunt cheeks. Reaching out to rest the back of his hand against the nearest temple, Peter could unscientifically estimate a steadily increasing fever. Neal needed to be in a hospital, but that ambition wasn't without its dangers.

The police would be alerted, since a bullet wound was involved, and word would quickly reach Tomkins. Although Neal had not introduced himself by name to the Assistant Director in that last fatal phone call, there was no chance Tomkins wasn't now aware of his identity or that it would pass under his radar. What would Tomkins do? Would he deem Neal unworthy of his attention? It was far more likely he'd recognise the CI as a threat with incriminating knowledge or maybe a bargaining chip with which to draw out Peter. Although Peter could call Diana and ask her to protect Neal, Tomkins, as Assistant Director, could countermand any order given. Peter was walking a tightrope of Neal's safety, balanced over the deadly effects of infection on one side and the lethal intent of their enemies on the other, and he couldn't decide how best to protect his friend. With more than a pang of disquiet, he postponed the decision until their destination.

He'd been keeping an eye out for pay phones, but new technology had turned them into a scarce commodity. There may have been some located inside restaurants or gas stations they'd passed, but the only external one he'd noticed had been broken. As trees gave way to more buildings, he spotted another at a BP station. He pulled up as close as he could and turned off the engine. The cessation of noise and movement awoke Neal. "Wha...where?" he mumbled incoherently.

"Easy," Peter automatically cautioned, stretching out a restraining hand to prevent sudden movements. "You keep still and stay here. I'm going to make a phone call."

An immediate obstacle to that plan was apparent when he realized he had no money. Neal explored his pockets uncertainly and was able to dredge up two quarters. A thorough exploration of every nook and cranny of the car provided three more, along with an assortment of other coins and a tattered raincoat which, while offering little protection against the cold, would at least conceal his state of disarray.

After the car's warmth, the bitter chill of the wind struck him fiercely, but it was a good excuse for drawing the coat tight and pulling up the hood. The area around the phone booth stank of stale cigarettes and urine, and the phone itself didn't look too clean as he picked it up with a grimace of distaste. He wouldn't have been surprised if the system were out of operation but, to his relief, there was a dial tone and a recorded voice telling him to deposit 50 cents. He obeyed, but then hesitated, wondering if El would be at home or still at work. Deciding to dial her cell phone in an attempt to cover his bases, he held his breath, less because of the noxious fumes reaching his nostrils, and more in anticipation of hearing his wife's voice.

"Hello?" The sound of that one word sent a shot of electricity to his heart, momentarily robbing him of his ability to speak, but he registered the slight shakiness of her tone as she repeated it.

"El," he breathed, his voice raspy and damaged. There was a moment of charged silence, the detonating cord leading to an explosion of sound, a burst of static, before his wife sobbed his name.

"Peter, oh God, Peter. They said...I thought...Are you alright?"

He was curious as to what 'they' had said, but his first concern was calming and reassuring his wife. "Honey, I'm so sorry, but I'm fine. I promise you, but I need you to listen to me. I'm in a phone booth, and I don't have much money, and this is important."

On cue, a voice interrupted demanding more money, and he fumbled for the coins before dropping one in the slot. "Where are you at the moment?"

"I'm at home."

"You're in danger there. I need you to…"

She interrupted, eager to relieve his mind. "I'm quite safe. The FBI has me under protection here. The assistant director is here now. Oh...he'd like a word with you."

Terror exploded like a dirty bomb in his brain, laminating the interior of his skull with grey matter. He couldn't think, breathe or move as Tomkins' voice came over the line.

"Agent Burke. I'm happy to hear from you."

The telephone once more demanded to be fed, and the mundanity of the act dissolved his paralysis. "That was my last quarter," he commented with composure, despite the panic gnawing at this stomach. "So let's make this quick. If you have an ounce of honor left, you'll leave my wife out of this. She knows nothing."

"I'm just looking for a civilized talk between us, one on one. Talking of which, where is your criminal accomplice?"

"He's out of the picture," Peter answered vaguely. "Look, I'm on my way, but I'm over an hour outside the city. You can check the number."

"Understood, but don't dally, and don't try to contact your colleagues. I'll know if you do, and it won't end well for your lovely wife." There was menace in Tomkins' tone, but more alarming was the edge of agitation. His plan was spinning out of control, and the AD was spiralling with it. He was a fanatic and cornered, unpredictable and desperate, the most dangerous kind of adversary to face.

There was so much more Peter wanted to say, but after a last demand for money that he couldn't satisfy, the line went dead, leaving him clutching the receiver in a white-knuckled grip. He replaced it in the cradle with exaggerated gentleness despite his desire to slam it through the wall. He didn't remember returning to the car, mind and body two separate entities, working in harmony, but his brain had separated itself from the inefficiencies and demands of its transport.

Slowly he became aware of Neal's frantic demands for information. "Peter, what is it? What's happened?"

"Tomkins is there. Inside my house. With El," he reported, the flatness of the words bestowing the horror of the concept despite the unemotional delivery.

"Oh God, is she alright?"

"He's not hurt her. I don't think she realized he was there for anything other than protection."

"What are you going to do? You've got to contact Hughes, he'll…."

"No, I can't. He said he'd know if I tried and I believe him. He's the deputy director of the FBI. Monitoring people's phones is part of the job description. I can't take that risk. For now, I'll do what he says. He wants to talk to me, then by God, I've got some words for him."

His anger was palpable in the small car, a rage that had settled deep in his bones, curling around his heart, but it was a cold fury that froze the air in Neal's lungs, a glacial turbulence that threatened dire consequences to those in its path. As he drove, Peter's hands didn't shake and his breathing never hitched, the unyielding set of his jaw declaring implacable purpose.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: Out of the woods literally, but perhaps not figuratively. Confrontation!

Subterfuge Ch 15

Neal huddled, tired and sore, in the passenger seat, any desire to discuss the situation quashed by Peter's glacial intensity. He wanted to offer an ingenious plan of rescue or at least some words of support and encouragement, but Peter seemed remote and unreachable, and any words he could summon seemed trite and unhelpful, not worthy of breaching the barrier that enveloped the FBI agent.

He could respect Peter's intention to march in without a plan - improvisation was one of his favorite approaches to a problem - and he knew that Peter was no slouch at thinking on his feet as long as flirting wasn't part of the program. But usually the cards weren't stacked so heavily against them. Peter would have a few aces up his sleeve, a trump card in his back pocket, or at least a healthy bluff backed by the martial look in his eye, the gun on his hip, and the force of the FBI behind him. Now, both the criminal element and law enforcement were arrayed against him. They were both injured and exhausted, and El's life was on the line. Going in and appealing to Tomkins' better nature did not seem like a winning strategy, although Neal knew from personal experience how convincing Peter could be on that topic.

Despite these reservations, Neal was willing to back any stratagem that Peter attempted, or simply follow him into Hell, so he was unprepared and flummoxed when Peter turned off the main road and pulled up in the parking lot of a hospital.

"What are you doing? We don't have time for this."

"You need medical attention," Peter stated baldly.

"It can wait; it will have to wait. You know the police will be informed as soon as they see the nature of the injury, and they'll detain you as a person of interest."

"That's why I'm not going in, and I suggest you report it as a hunting accident."

"You're just dropping me off; you're going to leave me here?" Neal's voice rose in both volume and octave.

For the first time, Peter's expression showed some emotion, a twinge of guilt breaking the marble resolution of his face. "You need medical care," he repeated, going on to elaborate, "You've lost a lot of blood, and I know that bullet wound is infected because I could roast marshmallows in the heat you're giving off."

"It can wait," Neal reiterated with determination. "I'm the only backup you've got."

"You can barely walk," Peter pointed out with a touch of asperity, adding more ruthlessly, "What are you going to do? Puke on his feet? Irradiate him with your fever?"

Neal tried to conceal his hurt feelings. "I can back your play, whatever it is. Is this some sort of revenge for me telling you yesterday that you were a liability?... because this is different. I can still be useful. Even if I collapse at his feet, I can trip him up."

"I know that," Peter burst out. "You are the most resourceful man I've ever known. I'm not doubting your courage or your determination, but I need you to do this for me."

For the first time, Peter turned to face him, and Neal could read the anguish and conflict that blazed from his eyes, belying the stoic exterior. "I can't do this. I can't worry about both of you, and I need to be focused on El right now. You're not a liability, but you are a distraction. I can't have my attention divided. I need to know you're safe. I thought you were dead last night, your blood literally on my hands. I can't be waiting for you to collapse, unsure if you're still breathing or wondering if your condition has moved from dangerous to irrevocable."

"Peter," Neal started helplessly, the word more of conversation that he couldn't continue than a simple name. He wanted to protest that he was fine, but he couldn't bring himself to lie in the face of that painfully naked honesty, and although he truly believed he could be useful, he couldn't deny the trembling of his limbs, the weakness in his muscles or the fever that incinerated his side before spreading a wildfire of destruction through his body and clouding his mind. But acquiescing felt too much like desertion. He couldn't simply walk away and allow Peter to march unaccompanied to an unknown but possibly fatal fate. Peter was too important to him.

He had no opportunity to summon up cogent arguments in his favor; Peter was relentless. "Neal, please. I'm asking you do this for me. I'll beg if I have to."

Neal was defenseless to that poignant appeal, climbing automatically out of the car and staring back at Peter through the window. "GIve me two hours, and then get them to call Diana," Peter instructed him, and then after a moment's hesitation continued, "Thank you for all your help. I couldn't have asked for a better partner."

Neal nodded mutely, hearing the unstated farewell behind the words. There was so much he wanted to say, so many seeds of truth that Peter had nurtured and that were ready for harvest, but they were dammed up behind a bottleneck of fear that this was the last conversation they would share. They lodged, stodgy and unpalatable in his throat and ultimately proved unutterable. He stood there miserably until Peter ordered him into the hospital and he stumbled towards the emergency doors.

He glanced back once, hoping for a reprieve, but Peter gestured him on, implacable, and Neal hastened his steps, not wanting to delay his friend any more. A glimmer of an idea lit the way, because hospitals had telephones and parking lots with many cars that Peter had clearly given him dispensation to borrow.

Peter watched the doors close behind Neal before pulling away, guilt and regret submerged under a tidal wave of relief that at least temporarily swamped all negative emotions and even numbed his pain. He had fulfilled his obligations to one of the people he loved and, without Neal's injuries and wellbeing on his conscience, he could now focus ahead.

There were too many variables for him to develop a specific plan, although he harbored a strong desire to plant his fist in Tomkins' face. He didn't allow thoughts of failure to linger in his mind, but stoked determination and resolve to their limits, their force blotting out weakness, pain and fear, so that by the time he arrived home, he had convinced his body it could run a marathon if El's safety demanded it.

He made no effort at concealment, pausing only to stash his gun near the front door. He'd no intention of entering with a gun possibly pointing at El, and he had no doubt that Tomkins would force him to relinquish it immediately. Hopefully, entering unarmed would diminish the tensions in the room. He took a last breath, bracing himself for the first sight of his wife in months under less than ideal circumstances, then opened the door and slipped inside.

He was mentally prepared for the scenario that greeted him and didn't flinch at the sight of Tomkins holding El in front of him as a shield, one arm wrapped around her throat to control her, the other pointing a gun at her temple. His gaze flew irresistibly to her face as if pulled by a magnet. Her eyes were dry, although wide with fear, but the fine courage and composure in her bearing were unwavering and so familiar. Her expression was full of a humbling amount of trust and faith and, for a second, it was just the two of them, reunited after far too long.

"Hey Hon," he greeted her softly, and she mouthed the words back to him. His gaze hardened as he stared at the man behind her. "I thought we were going to be civilized about this," he remarked acidly. His open hands were spread out at his sides, shoulder height and, to emphasise his unarmed state, he spun slowly offering a 360 degree view of his empty waistband, then pulled up each trouser leg in turn to reveal their similarly weaponless state.

Tomkins relaxed his stance, but didn't totally release his hold on El, pulling her down beside him on the sofa and gesturing to Peter to take a seat opposite.

"You also said we would talk one on one, so here I am. Now, let my wife go."

The AD shook his head. "I don't intend to hurt her, but I need you to listen to what I've got to say, and I don't want her calling anyone until you've heard it all."

Peter made no attempt to conceal his contempt for the turncoat. "Why would I believe a single word you have to say? You betrayed your oath, endangered millions, and delivered me up on a platter to be executed."

"You weren't supposed to be hurt. No one was supposed to get hurt," Tomkins started defensively, but Agent Burke was working at full throttle and gave no quarter.

"Bullshit," he spat out. "You aren't so gullible as to believe that Abramov could allow me to live after infiltrating his organisation and familiarising myself with all financial aspects of his business. He's not that stupid and neither are you. You were willing to sacrifice me for your own ends."

"You've got this all wrong. No one was going to get hurt. There was no terrorist threat; those barrels were just filled with water. It was just a bluff."

"You think I don't know that now?" Peter cut in savagely. "But, as you so clearly realise, an act of terror doesn't have to kill people to be a terrorist attack. The ensuing panic and the loss of confidence in our water supply would be devastating."

"That's why I had to do it," Tomkins jumped up, waving his gun in a way that suggested he'd forgotten it was in his hand. Peter was alert for an opportunity to relieve him of it, but he was aware that Tomkins had been a field agent with the same training as he had himself and wouldn't be an easy target. He couldn't risk El's life unless he was confident of the outcome.

"I had to show them how vulnerable we are. No one believes it. Those idiots in Congress have all but forgotten 9/11 and the sacrifices people made that day. They're only interested in getting reelected and toadying up to special interests groups. There's a price that has to be paid for freedom, but people are only interested in lining their own pockets."

Peter's accusations had punctured the facade of rationality, and the fanatic had surged to the fore, complete with flying spittle and frenetic gestures. "They refused to give me the personnel and resources to do the job properly. How many people have to die before we accept the reality of the threat facing us? I told them again and again…"

Peter tuned out the continuing rant, sensing it would persist for a while, and focused on his wife. El was sitting behind the gesticulating man, hands resting demurely in her lap, but sensing her husband's observation, she pointedly aimed a glance at a vase on the side table beside her then nodded, with eyebrows raised questioningly, towards the back of Tomkins' head. Peter loved his wife's spirit, but quickly discouraged this initiative with a barely perceptible shake of his head. He was amused by her moue of disappointment at his repressive grimace.

He was relieved that El appeared none the worse for her enforced captivity, not only unharmed, but also uncowed. He drank in her beauty while noticing minute changes from the picture he'd maintained of her in his mind over the past months. She'd lost a little weight, hollowing her cheeks slightly and sharpening her bone structure, and the fine lines furrowing her brow seemed deeper. Yet, every tiny difference just made her more radiant, more magnificent to his eyes. He tried to convey a portion of the love he felt for her while he waited for Tomkins to pause in his diatribe long enough for him to interject.

Realizing that it could be a long wait, and tiring of the incessant justifications, Peter interrupted by rising to his feet, reminding the AD that his audience wasn't passive or deferential. Tomkins immediately leveled his gun, but Peter stood firm despite seeing El's alarmed reaction. The air in the room was suddenly charged as if the molecules were rubbing together heating the atmosphere.

"I understand your frustration," he said mildly. He had no intention of sympathising with someone who'd held a gun on his wife, but defusing the tension called for a modicum of diplomacy.

A smile of triumph leavened Tomkins' face. "I knew you would be able to understand."

Peter tried to steer the conversation back to reality. "You're in a difficult situation, and I'm sure you need more manpower and funding. There isn't a law enforcement officer in this country who hasn't experienced your struggle. We all know the bitterness of a suspect escaping justice on a technicality or losing a case because…"

"Don't you dare try to compare your situation to mine," the AD cut in angrily. "If one of your suspects escapes, a ridiculously wealthy man has a forgery sitting in his vault. If I fail at my job, people die."

Sensing the start of another long harangue, Peter elected not to debate the brutality of some of the criminals he'd faced. "You have a point," he conceded. "However, we took an oath to uphold the law, and we can't pick and choose which regulations to follow, or we're as bad as the criminals we're arresting."

"That's cowardice talking. You're telling me your career is more important than people's lives."

It would be easy to argue his case self-righteously, but Peter needed to find the words that would sway a zealot. "It's got nothing to do with my career. I believe in justice, not just blind obedience to the law, but something has to separate us from the terrorists, something more than just having a badge. There have to be lines we don't cross."

"We're at war, people are dying and you're going to let some scruples, some weak concept of rules, prevent you from doing what's necessary?"

Peter doubted the efficacy of argument. Tomkins had his justifications polished. He'd been stewing in the sense of righteous indignation probably since 9/11, and words would do nothing to convince him, no matter how earnestly uttered or persuasively delivered. But he had nothing to lose in continuing, no other plan. At the very least, the longer he could engage the AD in conversation, the stronger the tenuous relationship between them would build, reducing the likelihood that he would shoot them out of hand.

He kept his voice evenly modulated, but more stern than amicable. "There has to be something that separates us from them," he reiterated. "It's not just a moral issue, it's a practical one. There has to be trust or there's anarchy."

"Stop trying to argue this on a general basis. You have to agree that there are times that the ends justify the means. Things that might not be acceptable in times of peace, become necessary when war is declared. Make no mistake, we are at war." There was chilling conviction in Tomkins' tone.

"Maybe that's when it's most important to hold on to our ideals."

"Principles shouldn't trump lives, and neither should regulations or financial constraints. You know we screwed up 9/11. If we'd just had the resources to follow up those leads, 3,000 people wouldn't be dead. My brother wouldn't be dead!" His voice rose to an impassioned shout that reverberated around the room, compressing the air thickly.

This was clearly the crux of the matter, the trigger that had instigated the whole plot and motivated the AD's every move for many years, and for the first time, Peter couldn't help but empathise with the man, although he also had to suppress the instinct to ask how Tomkins had successfully passed his psychological tests. Peter could see that El was about to intervene, her compassionate nature kindled by the AD's pain, but Peter didn't want the gun-wielding man's attention to be drawn back to her. However, he had to be extremely careful in his next actions, because in exposing his vulnerable core, Tomkins had turned into a bomb, primed and ready to explode, and the slightest spark could cause a lethal detonation.

There was only one way that Peter could think of to forge a bridge. "Did I ever tell you that El was supposed to be in the World Trade Center that day?"

"No!" Tomkins swung round to stare El, who nodded confirmation. Peter shifted his weight to draw his attention back.

"Believe me, I'm all too aware of the dangers of terrorism and its personal costs." He was relieved to see that Tomkins appeared to have calmed down. For a moment, the AD looked positively thoughtful.

"What would you have done?" he asked suddenly. "If she had died that day, how would you have reacted?"

Peter looked into the sapphire, loving eyes of his wife and gave an honest answer. "If anyone hurts my wife, I can't predict what I would do, because I'm not sure I'd be entirely sane." It covered many bases, offering a certain amount of absolution, but it was also a diagnosis and, most of all, a warning.

Tomkins was perspicacious enough to grasp all the nuances, though he seemed unsure where to start responding. He gave a short laugh, "I see." He sat down again, waving for Peter to do the same. "I've told you before," he said with a touch of asperity. "I have no intention of hurting your wife. I'm not a barbarian, but I am desperate."

Peter relaxed cautiously, realizing that Tomkins would only shoot if directly threatened. He had rewritten the story with himself as a good guy who was sacrificing for the cause, restoring his brother's honor, the saviour of his country. Shooting an unarmed woman wouldn't fit into that narrative. Killing Peter himself might not involve such an ethical conflict, but he wasn't so naive or deranged that he didn't realise that gunning Peter down would necessitate disposing of El too.

"So how do you see this playing out?" he asked, toning his scepticism down to a faint undercurrent.

"That's simple." The AD's voice gained volume with fervency. "You'll come to the Federal Building with me and make an official report. You'll describe how, after unearthing the terrorist plot and calling me with the details, you were caught by the Russian mob who worked you over to discover how much you knew. However, you recognised one of them and blackmailed him into helping you escape. You will express horror at the narrowness of our escape from this horrendous attack and throw your support behind additional funding for the anti-terrorist unit. Then you will announce your resignation. Since I'm sure that no one would believe the brave, indomitable Peter Burke would retire because of PTSD, you will explain this was a promise made to your wife who was forced to endure your lengthy undercover assignment and subsequent injuries."

Peter was unable to suppress a snort of incredulity and caught sight of El's 'what is he smoking' expression which probably matched his.

"No one who knows me would believe that I would make such a request," she stated tartly.

Peter didn't want his wife drawn further into this imbroglio. Burgeoning ire tightened his voice as he contributed, "Why would I do that?"

"I had hoped you had the flexibility to realize that this is the most beneficial course of action for our country. It's a fait accompli; I'm not asking you to actively break the law, just not to spoil the progress we've made." After taking a look at Peter's stony expression, he added, "However, it's clear that your rigid mindset is incapable of encompassing the exigencies necessary to keep our country safe. I'm disappointed and maybe a little surprised given your propensity for keeping company with criminals."

Peter stared at him woodenly, but for the first time, an unease, unconnected with the AD's gun, curdled uncomfortably in his gut. He watched as Tomkins pulled some papers from his breast pocket and flung them down on the coffee table between them with a checkmate flourish. Peter had seen arrest warrants often enough to recognise one without perusal, but his heart fell out of rhythm. Without even seeing the name on the document, he knew what was there. In a blinding flash, Tomkins' plan, inexorable and malicious, was unveiled in its stark entirety in his mind. The AD was a speeding train and, once he'd looked at that document, Peter would be forced to lie down on the rails in front of him.

The seconds stretched wetly in kaleidoscopic chaos as Peter contemplated options and consequences, but the inevitable couldn't be postponed indefinitely. He reached out, his hand almost too heavy for his arm, and scraped the paper off the table, bringing it closer with utmost reluctance.

Absently, he noticed there was no date and that the judge's signature was illegible, and he absorbed the implications of those omissions. However, only one thing mattered and that was the name blazoned in unambiguous block capitals - Neal Caffrey. It was an additional, but almost irrelevant, blow to read the charges which included murder and aggravated assault.

Impotent fury swept through him, savage and all-consuming. Raising his eyes to meet Tomkins' triumphant gaze he said bitterly, "So much for not hurting innocent people. You're willing to frame Neal to force me to toe the line. Those are not the actions of an honorable man."

Stung, the AD hit back. "Caffrey is anything but innocent. Just because he isn't violent doesn't mean he hasn't left a trail of devastation in his wake - people feeling violated and less secure because of his thefts, others fired because of failures in security. He's no saint.

"I've given you every chance to voluntarily join with me. Now, I'm telling you. If you cross me in any way, contradict my story, sabotage my plan, I will issue this warrant. Caffrey has cut that anklet too many times, thumbed his nose at the Bureau once too often. He has few friends outside your small department. I can promise you, he will go to jail. Even if you succeed in bringing me down, I have friends who will ensure that."

Peter swallowed, despair sinking tight claws into his gut. Tomkins didn't need to draw a picture of Neal's fate in jail. There was no way Peter could protect him there. Even in solitary, it would take just one corruptible guard or incautious moment for a shiv to find its target. Neal was now not just a snitch for the man, he had also angered not one, but two of the major crime families in the city. He wouldn't stand a chance. It wasn't necessary to prove a case against him. The mere accusation would void his agreement with the Bureau and see him reincarcerated. Peter wasn't holding Neal's arrest warrant but his death warrant.

He ransacked his brain for some way to outflank this scheme, to safeguard Neal by any means possible. He would send Neal out of the country without hesitation, encourage him to revisit non-extradition sanctuaries, but since the young man was currently injured, his escapist prowess was hampered. If he did successfully flee, he'd be hunted for the rest of his life, and, shadowed by the accusation of murder, the pursuit would be relentless.

Peter wasn't accustomed to the sour taste of defeat, but he knew he was backed into a corner. A glance showed him El, looking as stricken as he felt, sitting spine rigid, pale and taut. Her usually steady hands were trembling, clenched so tightly into fists he could see the pallor of the knuckles. He recognised that he had to concede the battle, but that didn't mean he wouldn't go down fighting for the war.

He met Tomkins' gaze squarely, head held high, but allowing the AD to see the canker of surrender in his eyes. "Neal wouldn't last a week in jail, not after everything he's done for me and the FBI. So I have no choice but to agree to your demands. However, I won't resign yet…" He held up a hand as Tomkins started to expostulate. "No. You will claim you sent Neal undercover to help me, that he cut his anklet on your orders, then arrange for another commutation hearing after which he will be free. On that day, I will retire. You will still have that hold over me. I'm sure the charges you've trumped up against him will still be sufficient for his arrest."

Tomkins was unconvinced. "You're playing for time," he accused.

"No," Peter denied, vehemently and not altogether truthfully. "You've won. I cannot risk Neal, but if I'm not an agent, I can't protect him. If I'm willing to end my career to save his life, you can see that I can't retire until his position is secure. I have one more stipulation. As you say, this is a fait accompli. There's nothing I can do to prevent it now, and I can accept that your intentions were at least guided by unselfish principles. However, if you ever abuse your position again, all bets are off. You've got what you wanted. Now give me your word that you'll now do the right thing."

Strangely, this intransigence helped convince Tomkins that Peter was sincere in his capitulation. "I agree to your terms and you have my word." He clapped his hands together briskly. "Excellent. Now we're all on the same page, let's go to the Federal Building together." He paused, scrutinizing Peter dubiously. "Unless you need to go to the hospital first."

"I'd rather get this over with." Peter didn't question the ease with which Tompkins had conceded to his ultimatums. The AD might truly mean to follow a straight path at this moment, but Peter had seen this before. Once an agent had crossed the line, unless there was sincere, heartfelt remorse, his transgressions would be repeated, if not escalated, when next stymied. "However, I haven't seen my wife for months. I'd like to spend a few minutes with her before leaving."

Tomkins holstered his gun and moved aside, both to give them some privacy and to stay out of reach should Peter's temper flare. Peter ignored him, intent only on reaching his wife. He was beside her in an instant, gathering her in. His bruises complained as she hugged him as if her life depended on it, but her arms were above the worst of the damage and he wouldn't have complained if he'd cracked like a wishbone, tension draining from his muscles as she settled into his embrace. A tidal wave of love swept through him, bubbling up fierce and fast, flooding every cell with contentment.

"I've missed you," she whispered, her breath warm on his skin. She pressed her face into his neck as if breathing him in, drawing comfort and strength from him, but it was a reciprocal action. She wasn't crying, but her body shook with tears all the same. After so long apart, the intimacy and comfort of a simple hug were almost overwhelming. It was as if his heartbeat had been missing, his survival a miracle given the lack of something so necessary.

He could have stayed in her arms indefinitely, but a diplomatic cough reminded him of the unpleasant duty still to be performed, and reluctantly he pulled away slightly, tucking a wave of El's hair behind her ear in a tender gesture. She refused to relinquish her grip on his hands. Her eyes asked an urgent question, but all she said was, "Be careful."

"I might be gone a while. You get some rest." He pressed a final kiss to her lips.

Tomkins politely averted his eyes at this farewell, but as Peter opened the front door, he asked, "Where's Caffrey?"

Peter had expected the question, and had no intention of giving an informative response. He had no doubts that Tomkins' network would discover Neal's location before long, but Peter wanted to ensure his own people had time to arrive at the hospital first. "I stashed him somewhere safe," he answered vaguely as he closed the door behind him. "I didn't want to…"

His voice trailed off as his eyes pierced the twilight and his brain caught up with what he was seeing. His heart kicked into his throat to interrupt the flow of words at the sight of Abramov standing in front of a phalanx of his men. They had stopped their cars a little to the left on the opposite side of the street and were clustered around them. While Abramov's hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of his snug coat, his men were heavily armed.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's note: Confrontation number one is swiftly followed by confrontation number two, and of course, Neal is sitting this one out (ahem, cough) This is the penultimate chapter, my friends, and I'll get the final one up as soon as possible, but I'll be in Iceland from tomorrow, so it's posting will be reliant on the availability of Wifi in the remote areas of the Westfjords.

Subterfuge Ch 16

Tomkins followed Peter's gaze and took a step forward, clearly not expecting his dubious ally's arrival. "What are you doing here? I told you I would handle…"

Peter was ignoring the interplay between the two disparate conspirators, concentrating instead on the most dangerous man there - Maskhadov, so he caught the movement as the Chechen raised his weapon with lethal intent. There was no time for a retreat into the house; they'd be cut down before the door was opened. A split second before the enforcer squeezed the trigger, Peter grabbed his AD by the back of his collar, pulling him backwards bodily and throwing them both over the railing of the outdoor stairs.

His quick thinking nearly carried them out of the hail of shots which mostly smacked into the house behind them, but the jerk of at least one bullet hitting Tomkins reverberated through Peter as they fell, and he felt the burn of another scoring his shoulder. The agony arcing through him at the snap of an already fractured rib counteracted the stunning impact of hitting the ground, and instinct drove him to crawl into the meager shelter offered by the stairs.

Tomkins was lying beside him, and he grabbed a foot to pull him in too, before realizing the futility of the action. The AD's vacantly staring eyes and the gaping wound in his throat indicated only too clearly that the object lesson of allying himself with a mobster had been learned too late. Peter felt a moment of instinctive outraged poignancy at the premature, violent loss of life, the natural regret of a man who valued life and fought everyday to preserve it, but it was quickly superseded by anger at the agent who had betrayed his oath and brought this danger literally to Peter's doorstep.

He wanted to call out to verify that El hadn't been an unintentional casualty of that first withering burst of gunfire. Although he was fairly sure the stone walls would sustain more than a few shots, the same couldn't be said for the doors and windows, and the fear that she'd been hurt was almost incapacitating. But calling out to her would alert the mobsters to her presence and they might feel the need to finish off all potential witnesses, so he kept quiet, knowing that she would have the common sense to find shelter if she were mobile.

Bullets knocked chips off the bricks of the stairs, whittling down his refuge and bloodying his face and arms. The angle of the shots was becoming steeper as he shrank back in the small space and their noise amplified, indicating that at least one shooter was approaching. He fumbled frantically for Tomkins' gun, which was buried under the man's leaden body, barking his knuckles on unforgiving concrete as he yanked it loose.

His hand was shaking as he leveled the weapon. Blood threatened to trickle into his eyes from a cut on his forehead, and he hastily swiped it away with his other forearm before bringing it down for support. For a second, all he could hear was the roar of blood pumping through his system. He tried to control his fear and slow the rhythm of his hammering pulse, focusing through the certainty of approaching death. His fate was inescapable; he was facing insuperable odds. One Glock 19 against a dozen automatic weapons only worked on television where the scriptwriter and ratings determined success.

The inevitably of his demise proved strangely steadying, all hope, extraneous worries and regrets burnt away leaving only stark determination. He would make that undertaking as costly as possible for his executioners. Flattening himself against the wall, his cheek pressed to the coarse bricks, he waited as the seconds stretched to infinity and back.

He didn't flinch at the spray of bullets hitting the wall to his right, waiting to take his shot. The angle of the stairs protected him from the lateral sweep of fire. The gunman had to expose himself for an opportunity at accuracy and as soon as he did, Peter fired before the mobster brought the gun round sufficiently. A slight clang of metal on the railings warned him of a sneak attack from above, but in trying to get the proper vertical angle, the shooter made himself an easy target through the bars.

The gun dropped from lifeless hands, and Peter caught it by reflex, staring slack-jawed at the weapon, a gift, almost literally from heaven, that could almost make him rethink his lapsed Catholicism, or at least consider his allotment of luck for the next seven years paid in full. It didn't exactly even the odds against him, or really improve his chances of survival, but it would make it harder for them to winkle him out of his niche. He was aware that this had just been a reconnaissance sortie, merely preliminary hostilities. Once they launched a concerted attack or someone had the intelligence to go round the block and attack from the other side, his brief stint of resistance would be over.

Adrenaline numbed the pain of the broken rib, so he squirmed forward slightly and sprayed a short burst to discourage such initiative and had the satisfaction of seeing Abramov dive for cover. Peter had to resist the temptation to advance and go out, guns blazing, rather than prolong the suspense and risk dying cowering in a corner.

Instead, he used the respite to check his weapons and run an inventory on ammunition. His enthusiasm for a glorious last stand withered at the realisation that it would be the shortest on record, more of a damp squib than a blaze of glory.

The lull was brief. Keeping his head down, he was relying on his ears for advanced information of an incursion, and he quickly caught the sound of a car engine starting up nearby. Cars might not be the bulletproof shield that they were portrayed as in movies, but they offered a relatively safe approach, and he realised the potential problems presented by a foray of that type including the fact that any time he stuck his head out to halt their progress, he risked having it blown off.

Grimly, he prepared himself for the end, guts twisting in hard knots, atria and ventricles warring in primitive dread for the final beat. The brumal air he drew in stung his lungs, the icy drops of condensation sweeter for the anticipated cessation of breathing. Every sensation was suddenly to be savored, the muted rumble of traffic, the familiar patterns of the neighborhood viewed from an original perspective - Mrs. Rossi really needed to fix that downspout.

His thoughts tumbled freely, the intellectual equivalent of his life flashing before his eyes. He relinquished regret, his blessings far more pronounced in his mind. Fourteen years of happy marriage to the most beautiful, intelligent, loving woman, a challenging and fulfilling career which had led coincidentally to his most challenging and fulfilling friendship with Neal, a blessing in disguise wearing a fedora and jaunty smile. The FBI had also given him such benefits as the loyalty and support of Diana and Jones, and the mentorship of such august figures as Hughes and Bancroft.

He'd laughed and cried, known more joys than frustrations, lived life to its fullest. Because of these bounties, he'd fight to his last breath, but when he died he'd be content, basking in the gratification of a satisfied mind.

The car appeared to be approaching slowly, suggesting some enterprising gunmen were using it as a shield. As the vehicle edged into view, Peter fired a short burst at the engine, hoping for an explosion, but accepting its abrupt halt as a win. He braced himself for the final attack, knuckles white and palms slippery on the grip of the gun, arms quivering with strain from holding his position.

A low rumble that he belatedly realised had been a background constant for several minutes, suddenly increased to a deep roar and, for one insane moment, he thought Abramov had brought a tank for reinforcement. The ground was vibrating beneath him, transmitting a disorientating rattle to his brain. There was a confused blend of shouts of alarm and a fresh burst of gunfire, although none of it seemed aimed in his direction, all underlaid by the whining crescendo of an engine. Peter risked a peek, just in time to see an enormous garbage truck accelerate into the pack of mobsters, scattering them like ninepins before continuing on to plow with a tearing crash into the car.

In that split second, Peter could see everything, an eidelon of pure intellect divorced from his body. He saw angles and positions, lines of fire and potential defences, but most clearly, in a flash of horrified intuition that reconnected his mind to his body with an almost audible thud, he knew with unalterable certainty who was driving the truck.

There was only one person he knew whose bravery rode the fine line of stupidity and whose tendency to throw himself into the fray on Peter's behalf against insuperable odds sent his stomach swooping on that particular roller coaster ride.

Anguish thrummed through his veins like an electric current, delivering a burning jolt to every nerve ending, leaving them twitching and quivering with the need to act. Without a moment's hesitation and completely unaware of his own injuries, he was out of the shelter of the stairs and sprinting for the truck, clearing his way with short bursts of fire from the automatic. As the clip clicked on empty, he discarded it and scooped up another gun from the ground, its previous owner having lost possession in the truck's onslaught. He was subliminally aware of the sound of sporadic shots, but nothing seemed to pose an immediate danger, and once he was screened by the truck, even that died away.

He tore the passenger door open, his heart slamming an arrhythmic beat at the sight of Neal crumpled in the driver's footwell, blood smeared on the only side of his face Peter could see. The window above him had been shot out and shattered glass lay sprinkled across the seats, but Peter threw himself across the space indifferent to the possibility of adding to his collection of cuts. His vision almost whited out in a rush of fear as he reached for his friend.

"Neal, are you alright?"

Neal raised bleary eyes. "Oh, hi. So I was in the neighborhood."

Moving closer to assess if Neal's disorientation was the result of a concussion acquired in the crash, or due to the fever that clearly suffused his body, Peter peered at equal and reactive pupils and opted for the diagnosis of no brain damage, at least nothing additional. "And is trash collection your new career or merely a hobby?" he inquired kindly.

"My new hobby is actually dodging bullets. They seem to be flying thick and fast around here." Neal's hand waved a demonstration, fingers fluttering in apparent illustration of multiple projectiles.

"Finally! A hobby I approve of." It was an automatic response as Peter snagged the appendage to inspect the fresh blood staining the palm, He was distracted by the ricochet of a shot smacking the framework near his head. He ducked lower, then sprayed a couple of bullets out of the window to encourage Abramov's men to keep their distance,

The single layer of metal between them and the mobsters was woefully inadequate, and as soon as the gunmen rallied from Neal's dramatic, meteoric entrance on the scene, they would rake the vehicle with fire, almost certainly killing the inhabitants.

He needed a new plan because Neal's presence changed everything. The odds were now irrelevant, defeat unacceptable. He had to protect the young man who'd flung himself from the comfortable safety of a hospital bed into the sizzling frying pan sitting in the sweltering fire on Peter's behalf.

"We need to move to a safer position," he urged Neal, who seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings in favor of a nap. The best plan Peter could devise was to move him to the footwell on the other side of the vehicle. Between the two front seats was a thick instrument panel for the operation of the trash compactor, and that would not only offer a denser line of defense, but also shield him from hostile eyes peering in through the driver's window.

Coaxing Neal into a semblance of awareness, sufficient to cooperate groggily, he grabbed Neal's wrists and pulled him over the central panel into the passenger footwell. He could feel fine, sharp tremors shuddering through his friend's body, mute evidence of the stress and exhaustion he'd recently experienced. He was clearly at the end of his endurance, that one last act of protection depleting his final reserves.

Once he had Neal settled in this more sheltered location, he glanced out the door to check that the leeward side of the vehicle was still secure. Seeing no sign of movement, he slid out of the cab with a last instruction to, "Keep your head down and don't move." For the first time ever, he expected that particular order to be obeyed since Neal had clearly lost consciousness. He slammed the door hard to signify that the truck had been vacated, then ran to the back and fired a few of his precious remaining bullets to reinforce that concept.

The silence that followed intensified into a palpable sensation, forcing Peter's breath to stillness and muting his heartbeat to a dull roar. He settled himself, a gun in each hand, with his back to the solid double wheel, hardly an impregnable position, but the best available. It was impossible to look in two directions at once, so he was relying on his peripheral vision, taking little glances along the length of the truck at repeated intervals.

In the distance, the familiar sound of sirens hummed, clearly drawing closer. Peter fervently prayed that the mobsters would cut their losses, judging completion of their mission not worth the risk. However, he could hear Abramov exhorting his men, the sound of Chechen curses reaching his ears, so a respite was unlikely.

He contemplated firing warning shots again to further demoralize potential attackers, but decided it was preferable if there were no auditory cues that would enable them to locate him. It would be more beneficial if they wasted precious seconds pinpointing his exact position.

Abramov's threats persuaded some of his men to overcome their disinclination to be on the receiving end of the semi-automatic. The attack was swift and multi-pronged, but luckily not silent, so Peter was prepared. The man approaching from the right walked straight into withering fire from the AK-47, giving the next in line an abrupt change of heart. Peter wasn't so lucky on his weaker side with his own weapon. His shot missed, but caused the gunman to flinch enough that his own aim fumbled, hitting the metal above the FBI agent. In desperation, Peter fired twice more with his left hand, but the man ducked back into cover. The Glock was now empty, which meant he was defenceless on one side.

He cast around for some way to protect himself and, by extension, Neal. There was a gun lying beside the downed mobster at the far end of the truck, but attempting to retrieve it would require exposing himself.

Reinforcements were approaching; the blaring sirens growing louder, their intermixing melodies indicating a sizable presence. Tortuous hope rose with the increase in volume. If he could hold out for just a couple more minutes, Abramov's men would be forced to flee or engage in a full-fledged gun battle with the forces of law and order. But two minutes could literally be a lifetime when confronting armed attackers.

Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one who realised that time was running out, and the gunmen started to press their attack more insistently. That spiteful little ray of hope impaled him, the edges sharp like a shard of broken glass. The onslaught was better coordinated this time and they knew what to expect from their prey. A bullet thudded into his upper arm with the force of a hammer blow and another smashed into his forearm, sending his remaining gun flying. The pain didn't hit immediately, shock both stealing the worst of the impact and graying his awareness.

He scrabbled blindly for something with which to protect himself, until a kick sent him reeling. Automatically, he scrambled backwards until his back was against the truck, needing its stability to stay upright. The numbness in his arm was replaced by a surging tide of agony, nerve endings catching up to the trauma of injury. It simultaneously cleared and overwhelmed his mind, an all-encompassing pain that blotted out the fear of his imminent demise as he braced himself for the ultimate shot.

"Special Agent Peter Burke."

Peter recognised the voice immediately and paused before looking up, not particularly wanting his last sight to be that of the sneering Chechen mobster. His voice emanated as a croak as dread sucked the moisture from his throat. "What do you want, Kaz?" he asked wearily. "If you're here to gloat, don't bother. You're finished. I might not be here to see it, but you'll be in jail, or dead, before too many more days have passed."

His own fate was no longer in doubt; in fact, he was only surprised he was still breathing. However, he could delay that certainty, not for himself, but because every second he could eke out squeezed the time crunch existing for Abramov, making it less likely he would check the truck for Neal, or venture over to the house and shoot Elizabeth - Peter's worst fears. If his last seconds were spent ensuring Neal's survival or El's safety, he would count them as well spent.

"I do not think so. Your death will ensure the demise of the last surviving hero of this terrible incident."

"You don't think that a dead AD and agent will warrant an intensive investigation?" Peter tried to plant the idea in the mobster's mind that there was no one else to kill.

"Maybe, but then our dearly departed Agent Tomkins has spent the last two months ensuring that my reputation would remain unbesmirched."

Peter laughed, admittedly a rusty noise that held more pain than merriment. "That's not what he told me. As is so often the case with honor among thieves, your pal spent the last few months double crossing you." Peter was lying with unblushing but convincing surety. It was certainly plausible that the AD had left an insurance package, and now he was dead, Peter was the only person Abramov could question to eliminate the threat.

"You're lying," Abramov asserted, but doubt was written clearly in his expression.

Peter's smile brightened. "He was actually a decent man," he continued his embellishment, drawing on all Neal's lessons on how to construct a plausible lie. "He wanted to keep people safe and was willing to fake a terrorist attack to achieve that. But there were lines he refused to cross and letting loose a monster like you was one of them."

"What did he do?" There was a dark edge of fury in the Chechen's voice.

Peter rested his head back on the truck in an attitude of unconcern. "You'll be finding out soon enough."

Abramov levelled his weapon. "I'll give you to the count of three to tell me, or I'll shoot you."

"You're going to shoot me anyway." Peter gave the smallest shrug of indifference. "It doesn't matter if it's on the count of three or in three minutes. I'd rather die with the assurance that you're going down."

Abramov wasn't a man accustomed to having his will opposed. "Tell me!" It was a shout of baffled frustration.

The sirens were almost on them, although the mobster seemed oblivious to the fact. Peter's smile now held the true contentment of a man who'd achieved his final goal.

"Tell me!" The scream had now reached truly deranged levels, and Peter wasn't surprised by the shot that followed, only that he heard it. There was an echoing stillness in his head, but he could still feel icy shards of air filling his lungs, so he knew he couldn't be dead. Strangely, the screaming continued, and he opened his eyes, not entirely sure the noise wasn't emanating from him. It wasn't difficult to trace the source of the howling. Abramov was writhing on the ground in front of him.

Shots continued and the remaining mobsters scattered. Leaderless, under fire and with the arrival of a large force of police imminent, they chose to focus on their own survival, abandoning their mission and leader and scarpering for the nearest escape route.

Dazed by this sudden change of fortune, Peter caught movement in his peripheral vision. Abramov, bloody teeth bared in a snarling rictus, was inching closer to his discarded weapon. Rising to his feet was an impossibility on a par with scaling Everest, so Peter shuffled in a weird three-limbed quasi-crawl. It was probably the world's slowest race towards a weapon, a tortoise and a snail vying for title of speedster, but the outcome was never in doubt.

With his unsteady left hand, Peter snagged the weapon, wagging it reprovingly in front of his enemy's hate-filled eyes. "You're going down," he repeated, contentment settling into his bones. However, as adrenaline dissipated, the injuries he'd successfully ignored grew insistent; the pain in his arm ambushed him and brought some friends. His vision swam, darkness bearing down in a manner unrelated to the sun's absence. His best estimate placed oblivion 30 seconds away and closing fast, hopefully long enough to see the handcuffs placed on Abramov.

He had a nostalgic longing for the comfy tire of the garbage truck - the lumbar support it offered would have prevented the embarrassing face plant that was imminent, but the two yards separating them was an insuperable obstacle. Involuntarily, he glanced towards the truck, half-expecting to see Neal with a gun in his hand, once more having provided the last-second rescue. There was no sign of his friend, but neither were there bullet holes in the door that would have indicated possible fatal wounds in anyone behind it.

He mentally adjusted the anticipated onset of his unconsciousness back another minute to allow time to inform medical personnel of Neal's location and condition. The sirens were now deafening, and blue and red lights reflected off every surface as police cars screeched to a halt in the road. There was a confusion of slamming car doors and shouting, but they started to fade for Peter, everything sucked into the whirlpool that was yanking him down, until one familiar voice calling his name cut through the hazy commotion.

The sound of El's panicked cry yanked him back to full awareness, a life buoy in tumultuous waters. He blinked rapidly to clear his blurred vision and saw her bounding down the stairs that had so recently protected him. The sight of her was invigorating, and her clear distress forced him to his feet, an achievement he would have believed unattainable five seconds before.

He held out his good hand, but she stopped an arm's length away, visibly shaking. Following her horrified gaze, he glanced down at himself, the street lights graciously illuminating a blood-soaked spectacle. His anoxic mind recognised that this was unusual and, almost hypnotized by the sight, he watched the blood dripping from his fingers to augment the messy pool on the ground. He kept himself upright through sheer force of will power.

"Oh, Peter!"

"It's…" He paused, his instinctive response of 'it's not mine' clearly wrong. "It's... " he tried again, but 'it's just a scratch' was too facetious and also incorrect. He refused to fall back on Neal's catchall of 'I'm fine," so decided on, "It's not as bad as it looks," which was apparently just as unconvincing.

"It looks like you've lost a lot of blood and are going to keel over at any moment." Concern softened the tartness of her words.

The comment also caused him to reluctantly further postpone his plan of a well-earned collapse. Plan B, which involved checking on Neal, was actually preferable but was also temporarily derailed when his sluggish brain realized that El was staring down at Abramov, an expression of dread on her chalk-white face. "Did I kill him?" she asked in a small voice.

It took Peter an embarrassingly long time to parse the meaning of this question. "You shot him?" he asked stupidly, blaming the lack of blood in his brain for this mental lethargy.

She stared down at her hands as if seeing incriminating blood stains on them. "When they started shooting at you, I got the gun from the safe, and I tried to cover you while keeping myself hidden."

Peter had a feeling his chin was taking the nap on the ground that he had been denied. "El…" he said helplessly.

"Then that man...I thought he was going to kill you…"

"He was. You saved my life," Peter assured her fervently. He closed the distance between them, and she collapsed against his chest while he held her strongly with his left arm. All the barriers she'd erected in the last month to contain her emotions shattered now she was finally safe in her husband's embrace, and she indulged her overwrought feelings.

Peter knew he was responsible for the long months of loneliness and worry she had endured, culminating in being held at gunpoint and participating in a shootout, so he subdued his instincts both to pass out and to check on Neal in favor of offering well-deserved comfort. He performed his best imitation of sturdy support while in truth he was having problems with the concept of vertical.

He stroked her hair and murmured tender words as people started to swarm the scene, checking on the wounded. He spotted Hughes in the dim light and nodded his gratitude, recognising that his boss was the reason they'd been left undisturbed. As a paramedic checked Abramov and called for a stretcher not a body bag, he was able to pass on the reassuring news to El that she hadn't been responsible for taking a life.

On that positive note, he gently disentangled himself. "I'm sorry, Hon, but I need to check on Neal." She wiped swollen red eyes with the back of her hand before looking around frantically at the bodies on the ground. "Where?" Peter waved vaguely at the metallic bulk near them. "He was driving the truck? Of course he was driving the truck."

"I stashed him in a hospital, but unsurprisingly that didn't take. Didn't even slow him down much." He allowed El to help him over to the vehicle. Opening the door and finding that Neal was still in exactly the same crumpled position as earlier caused an icy fist of fear to form around his heart.

"Neal. Hey, talk to me. Neal!" As Peter fumbled for a pulse, the sheer heat exuding from his friend confirmed he was alive, but any relief he was feeling evaporated in the terrifying incandescence of his fever. He looked around frantically for a medic. Diana was approaching, her gaze fixed on his blood-soaked sleeve and it took no persuasion to send her in pursuit of an EMT.

The speed with which she returned, medic in tow, suggested she's seized the nearest man by the scruff of the neck and bodily hauled him in their direction. However, she did protest when Peter insisted that Neal received attention first. "Come on, Boss. You're losing a lot of blood."

"I'm conscious and vertical which places me at peak health compared to Neal. I can wait." Locking his knees and allowing El to provided a little extra stability, Peter hovered as Neal was extracted from the footwell. He briefed the medics on Neal's injury and clarified the timeline and symptoms he'd witnessed.

Peter was exhausted, in such desperate need of rest that his body refused to relax. His face was pale and drawn, the lines carved around his mouth and eyes revealing the effort he was expending. It was only the need to finish what he'd started that was keeping him upright in blatant denial of gravity and the cumulative effect of his injuries. Someone had to be responsible for explaining the true details of the terrorist attack and this shoot out, and he was the only one left to do so.

He wanted to find Hughes, one of the few people in the FBI hierarchy he trusted unequivocally, and deliver an official report. Like a spectral genie summoned by the unspoken wish, the SAIC materialized beside him.

"Sir," he began, fighting for coherency, trying to organize the chaotic events of the last few days into some semblance of structure, but his thought processes were held together by tatters of duct tape that were tearing apart, soaked with blood and exhaustion.

Hughes interrupted him. "Easy, Peter. You need to accompany Caffrey to the hospital and get your own injuries seen to."

"Sir, it's important that you understand…"

Hughes stood firm like a gangly, slightly stooped stop sign. "Thanks to Caffrey's little friend who called us in, I've got a fairly good idea of what's been happening. So stand down. We've got this now."

"But…" Peter's voice faltered and fell away as the true drain on mind and body started to register. Black spots spiraled queasily in his vision, but he continued to fight for conherency. "Sir, AD Tomkins is dead, but before he died he promised… he promised Neal … a commutation hearing and…"

He tried to continue, but then gravity doubled and he was falling, spiraling down into the dark void opening beneath him.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's notes: Look Ma, I wrote a 100,000 word story!

So this is it, my friends. Apologies for the tardiness of the last chapter, but we were on the go all the time in Iceland - I really recommend it for a vacation destination - then, 30 minutes after arriving in England, we were rear-ended by a hit and run driver which has resulted in copious forms needing to be filed.

Thank you for sticking with me. I'm so happy that Peter and Neal live on in the hearts and imaginations of their fans. In particular I want to thank Nonny who, despite having no time to spare, managed to stay ahead of my posting schedule and did a wonderful job inserting commas, pointing out confusing relative pronouns and questioning perplexing metaphors. Thank you!

I also want to thank my son for always being willing to answer bizarre questions or assist my failing memory, and all my family for their support.

Thank you to all those who took the time to leave me a review or a personal message. After four years writing this, the feedback is so welcome and inspiring - thanks especially to Happy Reader, Pechika, Reag, Adoptarescue, Swiftalon, Wishful Writing, Daisiesndaffidols, Sblack, Rosayago, Doting Fan, Steve, Maryt, LuvsBruce, Long live Brucas who all stuck with me to the end. I hope to continue writing about Peter and Neal. I have a rather different short story in mind, probably three chapters, so it'll probably only take me three years to write!

In conclusion, Nonny said that this chapter had a very final feel to it and that is true. This is how I wished the show had ended (and there's a shout out to Jeff Eastin's original ending)

Enjoy!

Subterfuge Epilogue

An indeterminate span of time passed, punctuated sporadically by brief periods of befuddled consciousness and amorphous feverish dreams. Neal drifted, cushioned in a velvet darkness that demanded nothing, but washed him languidly around the depths of oblivion before an incoming tide swept him ashore, depositing him gently on the sands of perception.

His brain came back online slowly, wading through the muddy waters of drugged confusion. He didn't need to be fully cognizant to recognise the rhythms of hospital occupation. The hum of background conversations was overlaid by the persistent beep of a heart monitor, and the unique bouquet of blood and disinfectant assaulted his nostrils. His throat was bone dry, and an effort to swallow merely reinforced the taste of blood and dust on his tonsils.

The tug on his arm suggested an IV was attached, and there must have been a generous amount of medication running through his veins because his head felt thick, his mind lethargic. However, the only pain he was feeling was a slight ache around his side, so it was also effective. Dragging his eyelids open a slit, he could see wires and tubes strung up around him, iatric spider webs delivering, draining and monitoring.

His brain kicked into second gear, and he experienced the spatial awareness of another presence in the room. Shifting his gaze beyond the bed, he surveyed the area of the room he could see without turning his head and discovered Hughes sitting nearby, legs crossed and a file balanced precariously over a knee.

He was the last...no, Neal ran a quick mental tally...maybe the eighth person he expected to see, but that was pretty low down on his list of non-criminal acquaintances. His instinctive reaction to the SAIC's presence was that he was in trouble. It would be nice if there were nothing on his conscience to substantiate that suspicion, but a slight twitch of his leg reminded him that once again his anklet was missing, and the memory of removing it was lamentably clear in his mind.

For now, Hughes seemed unaware of his scrutiny, and Neal tried to ascertain if it was his own file that had the SAIC so engrossed. It was thick, with vividly colored post-it notes sticking out at various places. Hughes wrote a few words on a page before turning it over and reading the back.

Neal contemplated feigning continued unconsciousness, but that strategy had the definite disadvantage of losing the opportunity to have his pressing questions answered. Details were decidedly fuzzy, but he definitely remembered with visceral certitude that Peter had been in trouble. The spike of fear-induced adrenaline generated by the memory caused a treacherous series of warning beeps from one of the monitors.

Instinctively, Neal glanced up, meeting Hughes' gaze directly. Only the ease granted by long practice enabled him to keep the guilt off his face. Under normal circumstances, Hughes could make a marble statue seem animated, but currently he was more inscrutable than usual, merely staring at Neal as if waiting for something. There was something about that blank stare that unnerved Neal.

"Peter?" he croaked. The nebulous memories that haunted him and Peter's absence combined to make him fear the worst. The desolation of the thought choked him. He could feel the tightness squeezing his throat, pressure coiling uncomfortably behind his chest and his brain shuddering to a halt.

"He'll be fine," Hughes reassured him, although the sentiment seemed a little mechanical. There was an awkward silence as he regarded Neal with mild expectancy. The CI was uncertain if his fears were actually assuaged, and stared back irresolutely.

Hughes hiked an eyebrow upwards by a fraction of a millimetre, a dramatic concession to surprise from him. After a moment he offered, "This is usually where you fall asleep again."

Neal ignored the implication that he was the sole participant in a rerun of Groundhog Day. "He was hurt," he insisted urgently. He wanted to add that it was his fault, desisting more because he didn't want to muddy the issue than because he doubted its truth. "They were trying to kill him," he added as that little detail reemerged in his mind.

"Look, if you're going to stay awake, I'm going to summon a nurse." Matching the action to the words, Hughes reached over and pressed the call button. Resuming his seat, he pinned Neal with an authoritarian stare. "None of Peter's injuries were life-threatening. He had some severe bruising, a broken rib, and lost a lot of blood from a couple of bullet wounds in his arm. That's why he isn't here. He's strong enough for a follow-up operation to stabilize the bone. They're prepping him for surgery right now."

Relief swelled in the pit of his stomach and radiated out like a warm ray of sunshine, but the arrival of a nurse forestalled any response Neal might have made. He submitted to her intrusive prodding and questions. She reassured him that although his fever hadn't completely broken, his temperature was now down to a safe level. After inquiring about his pain level, she demonstrated the use of the pump to increase his dose if necessary.

Still discomfited by the presence of the SAIC at his bedside, he welcomed the distraction she offered, but eventually she departed, leaving him alone with Hughes.

Frayed around the edges and threadbare in the middle, Neal was in no mood for equivocation. He needed to know what consequences he would be facing. "So are you here to tell me I'm going back to jail, or merely to replace the anklet?"

The eyebrow definitely crawled a little higher. "I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension," Hughes said mildly.

Respect for the man, not his position, and certainly not the organization he represented, caused Neal to swallow his natural skepticism and restrain the sarcastic comment that threatened to escape.

Hughes was regarding him steadily, and when Neal said nothing, the SAIC elaborated, "You are no longer seen as a flight risk."

It was said with a deadpan expression as if it were the most commonplace, prosaic sentence ever uttered.

"Come again?" Neal queried politely.

"You are no longer considered a flight risk," Hughes obligingly repeated.

Apparently, repetition did not assist comprehension. Neal pinched himself in the hopes that pain would sweep aside the cloying effects of whatever was dripping into his veins. When that proved unsuccessful, he tried squinting and tilting his head to bring the situation into focus. Reaching out for the glass of water that the nurse had helpfully placed beside his bed, he took a few brief sips to irrigate both his mouth and his mental processes.

"They do know that I cut my anklet again?" he asked plaintively. As soon as the words were uttered, he realized that the drugs were affecting him even more than he initially suspected. His judgement must be considerably impaired to break his cardinal rule of denial. He never confessed.

"Of course they do," Hughes confirmed easily. "They know you cut your anklet at Peter's request and with my express approval."

It took a while for Neal to process this information, and the silence stretched out, yawning uncomfortably between them. He shook his head hard, waiting for verification to work loose from the cotton enclosing his brain. It was quite possible that his recollections were faulty. However, the more he poked and kneaded his memory, the more certain he became that his actions were autonomous, but he retained enough acuity to not dispute this version of events.

"OK," he said agreeably, not committing himself one way or the other, but trying to look as if the story wasn't new to him.

Hughes gazed at him inscrutably, but there may have been a twinkle in his eye when he added, "Sadly, Assistant Director Tomkins was killed in the shootout with Abramov and his mob, but before he died, he promised you a new commutation hearing, and we are in the process of setting that up."

Neal narrowed his eyes thoughtfully before lifting a hand with careful deliberation to depress the call button. The same nurse bustled in, exuding busy solicitude. He cast her a look of earnest concern. "Tell me…" his eyes dropped to her ID badge, "...Eilene. Is it possible that my injuries could cause hallucinations?"

He ignored the snort from the chair next to the bed. The nurse looked nonplussed, then asked cautiously, "What kind of hallucinations?"

"VIsual mostly, but also auditory."

Her confusion turned to worry. "I think I should call the doctor."

Hughes cleared his throat. "Excuse me nurse, if I may. I believe the injury to which Mr Caffrey is referring affected his sense of humour, and the symptoms are simply annoying."

She offered a game smile, clearly not understanding, but willing to go along with the joke.

Neal was too stunned to be repentant. This was so antithetical to what he had been expecting, that his mind literally couldn't encompass the concept, especially when there was a cocktail of drugs befuddling his mind. It had to be a practical joke, or a misunderstanding. There is no way that Tomkins would have recommended a new commutation hearing...unless Peter blackmailed him.

He decided that his best approach was to accept it as an improbable fairytale, and hope that it would resolve itself into a comprehensible narrative with the benefit of more sleep and less drugs.

"That's nice." It was a weak understatement, and he added with an unusual burst of honesty, "And not what I was expecting."

Hughes couldn't resist a last dig. "So, if you could refrain from taking any impromptu island vacations…" He relented quickly. "However, the reason I wanted to talk to you is to thank you for your commendably brave actions and also to apologize."

He deftly captured Neal's hand as it strayed once more towards the call button. "Hear me out."

Neal obediently subsided into his pillows. Despite the demand for an attentive audience, Hughes seemed in no hurry to launch into an explanation. He stared pensively at the file in his lap as if uncertain how to proceed. Finally, with a sigh, he looked up.

"I didn't like this operation from the beginning, although I had no idea as to the depth of corruption it would involve. Despite being Peter's immediate superior, I was completely cut out of the chain of command. Despite pulling strings, I could get only minimal information about the progress he was making. The whiff of mismanagement turned into a stench of subversion. I began to really fear for Peter's safety, so I let slip the information to you about the Chechens in the hopes that you'd do what you do best."

"Run?" Neal posited doubtfully.

"No, that you'd have his back, the way you do everyday."

Unaccustomed to praise from the big man, Neal tried to play it off with another feint at the call button, but he desisted when he pulled a slight smile from the SAIC. "You were able to accomplish what I could not, and you did it with inspiring capability and bravery. I apologize for using you without your consent, but your service to this department and this city has been exemplary, and you deserve your freedom. My report will state exactly that."

Overwhelmed by the accolade for actions he didn't consider meritorious and dazed by the abrupt reversal of fortune, Neal mumbled his thanks. He really needed to see Peter. Only a visual inspection would reassure him as to Peter's condition, and he fervently wanted to discuss these developments with his friend. Even if this wasn't a crazy, wish-fulfilment fever dream, he couldn't allow himself the hope of freedom without confirmation from the one man he truly trusted.

Peter would be able to verify the story and give him a realistic appraisal of his chances of passing the Board. Pleading exhaustion, he closed his eyes to feign sleep, but the pretense quickly became reality because when he opened them again, the hard planes of the senior White Collar agent had morphed into El's soft curves.

Their friendship had solidified and flourished in Peter's absence, and his smile at seeing her was one of delight. "Did Peter…" he started immediately, not quite sure exactly what he wanted to know but craving reassurance anyway.

She grasped his hand in hers. "He's fine. In fact, he sent me to check on you. The operation went well, although he probably has enough metal in him to set off all the alarms at an airport. He should make a full recovery, but it's going to be a long haul with a lot of physical therapy. It's probably going to be a couple of months before he's back at work."

"I bet that doesn't sit well with him."

"Actually, given recent events, for the first time he seems ready for a real vacation." She squeezed his hand more tightly. "You brought him back to me, and I cannot thank you enough for that."

It was ironic that Neal had never received so many compliments at a time when he felt his actions were far from laudable. He refused to let the blood rise to the capillaries in his cheeks. "I think it was the other way around," he blurted out. "He brought me home, at least to the hospital,even if I didn't stay there…"

El didn't let him continue any further. "Peter made it quite clear that he wouldn't have survived to that point if it wasn't for your courageous intervention. I know for certain that without your unconventional demolition with the truck, I wouldn't have had time to…" She broke off, grimacing, dropping her gaze to her lap. All of this thoroughly intrigued Neal, and he wasn't about to let it pass.

"Come on, spill," he coaxed. "We're sharing here."

She tilted her chin up defiantly. "I got Peter's gun out of the safe and covered him from the bedroom window." Her cheeks pinked slightly. "I shot Abramov."

Neal stared at her in awestruck wonder. "Elizabeth Mitchell Burke, will you marry me?"

She giggled, the red rising higher in her face, enjoying his admiration and accepting his words as the compliment they were intended to be.

"So you saved us both," he pointed out.

"It was a group effort. Don't forget Mozzie. If he hadn't brought the cavalry in at the eleventh hour, we'd all have been toast. However, Mozzie and I were last minute additions to the rescue business. I think you just have to accept that you and Peter saved each other. You're a team, each of you better for the other watching his back."

"Hughes said something very similar," Neal admitted. The thought warmed him, seeping into the interstices of the neglected spaces of his heart and those areas hardened by enforced self sufficiency. "He also said that Tomkins had promised me another commutation hearing, which seems a little perplexing under the circumstances."

"It's true," El insisted. "And I will swear under oath or on a lie detector test."

Neal scratched his ear. "However, I'm sure it wasn't as simple as that," he nudged.

El tucked her legs under her in the chair, making herself comfortable. "Perhaps not," she eventually allowed.

Neal didn't push her to continue this time, sensing she would resume under her own steam. "I don't think he was a bad man," she mused softly. "No one realised just how much his brother's death affected him. He wanted that sacrifice to mean something. I guess I can sympathize with his goals while thoroughly disapproving of his methods. He knew if Peter stayed in the Bureau, he would find a way to bring him down, but he couldn't bring himself to kill him, and me I suppose, in cold blood." She moistened her lips and eyed Neal consideringly. "Look, I'm not sure if Peter would want me to share this with you."

"I'm sure Peter wouldn't tell me himself, but I think it's important that I know, don't you?"

"I think you're right. I told you when Peter left, that I wished you were with him because I knew you'd do whatever was necessary to protect him, but you should know that the converse is true. He would do the same for you.

"Tomkins had some papers with him - an arrest warrant for you on the charge of murder. If Peter didn't resign from the Bureau, he would have you arrested. It didn't matter that the charges wouldn't stand up in court. It would mean you would be back in jail."

The remembered claustrophobia of prison was a tangible force, pressing coldly on his chest and clogging his lungs with the stench of desperation. His adrenaline surge registered on the monitors, and El patted his hand reassuringly. "Peter isn't get to let that happen," she stated firmly. "He agreed to resign as long as you got a commutation hearing and were allowed to go free."

"Peter would quit the Bureau for me?" Neal queried disbelievingly. He knew exactly how much Peter loved his job. It provided the perfect blend of intellectual challenge and emotional gratification. His team was his surrogate family, and he led, guided and nurtured them in turn. It fulfilled his innate need to protect and seek justice. It was staggering that Peter would be willing to sacrifice all that for him.

"Oh, sweetie," El repeated the pat on his hand. "You must know there is almost nothing Peter wouldn't do to keep you safe, including riding you hard to prevent your own worst instincts from landing you back in jail. There are other jobs, maybe not the same, maybe not as satisfying, but there's only one of you. He'd never let the truth of the matter pass his lips, but he treasures your friendship. You've brought so much to his life."

"Not all of it good," Neal pointed out self-deprecatingly.

She paid him the courtesy of not dismissing the idea immediately, but considered it thoughtfully. "You'd be surprised," she said at last. "You've made him more flexible, provided a lens to help him see between the black and the white, to temper his more rigid ideas of justice. He's a better person for knowing you."

The honesty that Peter had worked so hard to instill in him compelled him to admit, "You must know that if we are attempting some karmic weighing of scales, I owe Peter infinitely more than he owes me. You told me once that he was the best thing that ever happened to me, and while I'd rather eat a deep-fried devilled ham sandwich than tell him, you were right."

"What do you think would happen if you told him?" El prodded him slyly.

"I'd lose plausible deniability and my membership in the macho man club," Neal returned promptly.

"Sweetie, you wear a fedora, that ship has sailed," El teased him.

"Ouch," Neal mimed a critical hit, then doffed an imaginary hat, the flourish stifled by medical paraphernalia. "Now my pride has as many bruises as my ribs."

"Your honor, I'd like to retract my previous statement. The hat is the crowning glory on a masterpiece of studly beauty."

"De Vinci beautiful or Picasso beautiful?"

"Now you're just fishing for compliments!" She glanced at her watch and stood up. "Visiting hours are nearly over. I need to get back to Peter before they kick me out." She dropped a light kiss on his forehead in farewell.

Just before she exited the room, he asked casually, "So where've they stuck Peter?"

She gave him a knowing shake of the head. "If I told you, how long would it be before you were out of bed and in his room?"

"Better than wandering the halls looking for him," he wheedled.

The answer was obvious in her sympathetic frown. "Sweetie, you're in no condition to be on your feet. If you exert yourself too soon, you'll just be here longer. Please wait until the doctors give you the green light. We nearly lost you, and I don't want to go through that again. I'll pass along any message that you want."

He shook his head with a minimal shrug and a smile meant to deflect, unwilling to put into words how desperately he wanted to see Peter, to visually inspect his injuries and confirm his continued well-being with his own eyes. He needed to scrub his memory clean of the distressing images of Peter tied to the chair, his face swollen and bloody or pinned down under the implacably advancing guns of the mob. In the end, it wasn't his half-hearted promise to El that kept him in bed, but rather the entangling, and at times intimate, embrace of tubes and wires connecting him to the machines around him.

Ultimately, a painful extraction proved unnecessary. His eyelids glued themselves back down. In the time it took to open them, the hardest working chair in the hospital had managed to summon up another occupant.

"Peter!" He surged upward in delight, only belatedly remembering how his body disliked that maneuver when it issued a remonstrating stab. He fell back with a groan, pain lancing through his side.

Unfortunately his exertion and its reaction must have registered on a monitor because before he could recover sufficiently to acknowledge Peter, a nurse hurried in. Judging by Peter's expression of concerned chagrin, his presence wasn't exactly sanctioned.

"Agent Burke, what are you doing here?"

Attempting to change his embarrassment to a air of authority, Peter stated somewhat bombastically, "I'm an FBI officer, and this man is my responsibility."

"You're off duty," she pointed out dryly.

"Believe me, nurse, if I hadn't come here, I can promise you that he would not have remained in this bed much longer."

She directed an inquiring gaze in Neal's direction, waiting for verification. He assumed his most innocent expression. "I wouldn't have thought of it," he stated blithely. "I understand the rules are there for a reason."

That virtuous declaration caused Peter to choke briefly, before raising his hand in a gesture of capitulation. "Alright, I'll go," he said, calling Neal's bluff.

"No!" Neal caught Peter's sleeve in an effort to prevent his departure. "Can he please stay?" Her eyes softened at his plea, but she remained adamant.

"This isn't the time for visitors."

"I'm not a visitor," Peter explained earnestly "I'm a fellow inmate... I mean, patient."

She was helpless against the twin expressions of entreaty. "Ten minutes," she relented, "I'll be back in ten minutes."

Neal drank in the sight of Peter, whole if not hale, beside his bed. The swelling in his eye had gone down, giving him binocular vision for the first time in days, but as the fluid drained, it left spectacular prismatic streaks and blotches.

"Wow, Afremov would have loved painting you."

"I'll pretend I know what you mean by that," Peter retorted.

"Look in the mirror. Your face is his canvas. Hughes said you'd been shot."

Peter waved a cast-enclosed arm in the air. "Apparently now I'm the Terminator. Well…" he said consideringly after scrutinizing it for a minute. "Maybe more like the Winter Soldier."

It occured to Neal that he wasn't the only one on mind-altering substances. If Peter was comparing himself to movie anti-heroes, he was clearly under the influence. "What medications do they have you on?"

"The pink ones," Peter confided.

"Oh, the good drugs." Neal nodded knowledgeably. This was clearly not the time to have a serious conversation. In vicodin veritas. There was a good chance Peter wouldn't be as guarded in his answers on sensitive topics as was his custom, but Neal wasn't going to take advantage. His side was still sore, so in the spirit of solidarity, he allowed himself another dose of analgesia, relaxing into its numbing relief, enjoying the muzzy bliss in the safety of Peter's company.

Despite the sedation, Peter seemed to follow his train of thought effortlessly. "I'm not high," he assured Neal, a fraction too solemnly.

"But not exactly low either," Neal supplied.

"Right." Peter pointed an approving finger before moving his hand in a soaring motion at chest height. "Just gliding at a friendly altitude. Not baked, but slightly toasted."

"Not blitzed, but the Germans are at the border."

They grinned at each other in loopy accord. "So what do two semi-stoned people stuck in a hospital do for…" Neal checked his wrist but there was no watch. With a shrug he continued, "...approximately five minutes."

"We plan for when we get out of hospital," Peter stated firmly.

That was a bad idea but Neal couldn't remember why. "Okay," he shrugged, his tone aiming for dubious, but overshooting by a considerable margin.

Peter didn't seem to notice, a determined little frown furrowing his brow. "When they release you, you're coming home with us."

Neal's insides took on the warm, gooey consistency of chocolate left on the dashboard on a summer's day. He'd spent many hours in the Brownstone in Peter's absence, but under those conditions, it had never felt completely inviting. The vision that Peter was offering with open-hearted generosity whispered with a tantalising allure of home.

"I don't need babysitting," he protested feebly, ingrained insularity instincts insisting he reject the tempting prospect.

"If I feel an irresistible urge to diaper your rear, I'll bear that in mind," Peter overrode the half-hearted objections. "June's still abroad isn't she? With the stairs there you would…"

The vocabulary proved elusive, so his fingers twirled in what was presumably meant to illustrate a fall, but looked more like the gyrations of an amorous drunk. "It's perfect. I'll be your legs and you can be my hands...hand...arm..whatever." He looked pleased with this solution. "Teamwork, we're good at that."

"What about El?" Someone had crammed his brain in a blender and hit liquefy, because he was still arguing against his own desires, but surely El would want to spend time with her husband after being deprived of his company for so long.

"She said…" Peter clicked the fingers of his one good hand as an aid to a bleary memory. "She said that way she could keep an eye on both of us."

"That would be…" Neal mentally scooped up an aggregation of adjectives, carefully picking through them to select one that would convey the appropriate amount of gratitude and gracious acceptance without betraying the eagerness he felt inside, but nothing met his exacting criteria. Luckily, the nurse re-entered before his lack of response registered with Peter.

"Ten minutes is up. You gentlemen need your rest."

With a final pat on Neal's arm, Peter stood up, swaying precariously. The nurse hastily steadied him. "I'll escort you back to your room."

Neal was desperate to acknowledge Peter's offer, so as the pair reached the door, he called out, "Hey, Peter." Again his facile tongue deserted him. "Thanks," was all he could manage, but it was heartfelt.

Peter looked him with unguarded affection. "It'll be fun."

"Nobody shooting at us," Neal supplied.

"No claustrophobic containers," Peter added, getting into the spirit of this new game.

"Chairs without restraints."

"No hide and seek with murderous mobsters."

"No mobsters with guns."

"No FBI with guns."

"No everyone with guns."

They both sighed nostalgically while the nurse looked simultaneously amused and horrified. "I'd think you guys were exaggerating if it wasn't for the evidence on your medical records. My professional advice would be to consider a career change."

Neal expected Peter to object at this suggestion, but he merely nodded solemnly, teetering slowly back and forth. Taking this as a clear signal that the agent needed to get horizontal on a bed before involuntarily assuming the same position on the floor, the nurse hurriedly ushered him out. Neal closed his eyes, suffused by a feeling of well-being and hope for the future.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWW

Neal's recovery held no further setbacks, and he was released from hospital the day after Peter, albeit with a sheaf of papers containing instructions and cautions. He was promptly whisked away to the Burke's house, where he was greeted rapturously by Satchmo before being ensconced in the spare bedroom.

He still slept for considerable periods, and since El had temporarily ceded her business responsibilities to Yvonne, it was several days before he found himself alone with Peter again. With a big party on the horizon, El had been forced to return to work. She'd left them with the admonishment to not overexert themselves.

They were in the kitchen, bickering amicably while they employed their vaunted teamwork to make a light lunch.

"Hold the bread in place. I can't spread the mayo with one hand, it keeps escaping."

"My soup will be scalded if I leave it now."

"It's bortsch, it will probably improve the flavor."

"And your sandwich is devilled ham. If it falls on the floor and the dog licks it, it will definitely improve the taste."

"The dog wouldn't even deign to try your soup."

Although the soup ended up cooked to perfection and the sandwich was unmolested by canine tongue, both men picked at their food, their appetites not fully restored. There were so many things that Neal wanted to say, questions that rudely tumbled to the front of the line, then were knocked out of place by their successor before being voiced.

In the end, it was Peter who spoke first. His words were a little stilted, as if it were a speech he had carefully prepared, but his tone was earnest, so it was clearly important to him. "Um, the last time we sat here together, you told me I had to come home. There were many times over the last few months, and especially days, that I thought that wouldn't happen, but the truth of the matter is that I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for you."

Neal couldn't help an irrepressible bubble of merriment from escaping at this solemn declaration. "What a wonderful Oscar-worthy speech!"

Peter looked marginally aggrieved. "El said that I should...," he started, but abandoned his disgruntlement quickly. "I should just have gone with my first instincts." He took a deep breath and launched into a much more satisfying tirade. " What the hell were you thinking? I dropped you off at that hospital and told you to stay there. But could you follow that simple instruction - no! Your instincts for self preservation are atrophied, shrivelled to a subatomic size. You just had to crash the party - literally! Where did you even get a garbage truck…no, never mind, I don't want to know."

Neal had been sitting back and enjoying the rant, but now he piped up. "You told me I had a dispensation to appropriate vehicles for FBI emergencies, remember?"

"I am certain I specified that was a one-time only occurrence."

Neal shrugged innocently. "My fever was so high at that point, it burned away that memory."

"Hah?" Peter pointed a triumphant finger. "So, you admit you should have stayed at the hospital."

Quickly shifting tactics, Neal backtracked."Let's go back to the thanking thing. I believe you were expressing eternal gratitude and devotion for my selfless service. Please continue as per El's instructions."

He propped his chin on his hand in a pose of expectant interest, but Peter's hand described a swooping gesture. "That ship has sailed."

The exchange had successfully dispelled the awkwardness between them, restoring the customary ease of their relationship.

"Well that's not a bad thing. I know how hysterical laughter tends to throw you off your oratorical stride."

"You're a pest," Peter said without rancour. Secretly he was relieved at the interruption which served a double purpose. He could claim virtuously to El that he'd attempted to thank Neal but that the ingrate hadn't allowed him to finish. However, he knew that his message had been received, and that Neal had interrupted more for Peter's sake than his own.

"I'm a sophisticated, highly proficient irritant," Neal corrected him with mock hauteur.

"Wearing a fedora does not upgrade you to an irritant." However, the words were said fondly. Peter abandoned the second half of his sandwich and got up to clear the lunch crockery into the kitchen, waving off Neal's offer to help.

He paused as he reached for Neal's far from empty bowl. "Since we've agreed the dog would rather drink from the toilet than eat that, what do you want me to do with the remains? My personal recommendation is the garbage disposal."

Neal waved his hand in airy permission. "Whatever. There's still some left in the saucepan for El if she'd like some."

Peter muttered something on his way into the kitchen which Neal interpreted as an estimation of the likelihood of him kissing his wife if she contaminated her mouth with such dregs.

Neal propped his feet on the coffee table, mentally preparing the excuse that it was an easier position for his side, while he listened to Peter's clumsy one-handed attempt at packing the dishwasher. He appreciated his friend's awkward words but didn't need to hear them in their entirety to understand the sincerity that lay behind them.

When Peter returned bearing two steaming cups of coffee, it gave him the courage to introduce the related topic that rattled like a hamster driven wheel in his head.

Peter looked as if he was going to object to Neal's feet adorning his furniture, but in the end he shrugged and joined him.

"It's easier on the ribs," Neal offered.

"A medical necessity," Peter quickly agreed.

Neal strove to keep his voice casual. "So when I was in the hospital, I had a visit from Hughes." Peter cocked an eyebrow in his direction but his focus remained on the hot beverage in his hands. "I was expecting immediate arrest, handcuffs, blindfold, firing squad at dawn, but he came empty-handed, not even gifting me with my favorite blinking jewelry."

There was no mistaking the satisfaction on Peter's face, and it almost certainly had nothing to do with adding the perfect amount of cream to his coffee. However, he said nothing, so Neal continued lightly, "Apparently I'm no longer considered a flight risk."

"A mind-boggling concept," Peter agreed.

"What happened to 'Neal runs'?"

Peter shrugged. "Leopards change their spots, old dogs can learn new tricks."

"While I appreciate the aphorisms, Aesop, I'm not a zoological specimen or a family pet."

"No, you're a guy who's smart enough to know when he's on to a good thing and when there's no reason to run anymore."

Neal had reached that conclusion before the last commutation hearing. A roaming tumbleweed existence was for the young, and he had matured to the point of appreciating the roots and vines that tethered him to this city. Jones told him he had the dream job with an anklet attached. Now, not only had his shackles dropped away, but the invisible, yet dangerous, manacles to his past had also been removed, thanks to Peter.

He had been gifted with a clean slate; his reckless past could no longer hurt him. He wanted to ask Peter about the agreement he'd made with the FBI concerning the expunging of his record and how it had factored into the acceptance of his undercover work, but that could only lead to another stammering speech that would embarrass them both. His gratitude would be best expressed by becoming the man that Peter had always seen beyond the conman, the man he called partner.

"So," he said instead. "Another commutation hearing. What are the odds of them overlooking the previous fiasco and holding a similarly enlightened view of my ability to evolve?"

"Oh, they'll see things our way." Peter's voice held a dark edge that matched the glint of determination in his eyes. Neal understood the implicit threat that his friend was holding over the FBI. Peter knew where the bodies were buried and how deep.

Neal hadn't been following the news much in the last couple of days, but he knew that the terrorist alert was being called a training exercise, a polite fiction to save face. Peter could destroy that prettily constructed fairy tale, embarrassing the whole department. That could also make him extremely unpopular.

"Don't destroy your career on my account," he urged.

There was no relenting in the iron-clad resolve. "No," Peter insisted stubbornly. "This is the right thing to do. You've earned this. You've earned it ten times over. If you're going to risk your life for the department again, it'll be because it's a choice you make with no coercion or threat hanging over your head."

Having cut Peter off in the throes of a speech of thanks, Neal knew better than to launch into his own oratorical paean of gratitude, so he decided to steer in the opposite direction. "So, you're just going to cut me loose," he asked with a touch of belligerence.

His response was almost timed well enough to cause a spit take from Peter as he sipped on his coffee, but instead the agent mistimed a swallow and choked on the liquid. Patting on the back wasn't a safe option given the number of bruises adorning Peter's torso, so Neal politely handed him a napkin.

The coughs turned into a splutter of indignation. "That was not my intention. I just don't want you to revert to your dead bug impression."

Neal was sufficiently intrigued by the allusion to ask, "My what?"

"You know, 'oo, a sparkly shiny thing, must fly towards it' - zap! You have the survival instincts of a moth!"

"What lovely unflattering imagery."

"Accurate though," Peter pointed out smugly.

"I'd say there was less zapping and more flailing and missing."

"One zap is all it takes." A snap of the fingers accompanied the warning.

"Well, you can put your can of Raid away. Sparkly things don't hold the same allure they used to, not after experiencing the joys of stea...I mean retrieving objects for the FBI."

"Well, that's a good thing, because the Bureau is well aware of your value as a member of the team. I'm sure they will be offering you a position - a paid position - as a consultant."

"As your partner?" Neal asked sharply.

Peter inclined his head. "If that is what you want, I would be honoured to have you as my partner. However, you would be free to take other assignments at your own discretion."

Neal was fairly sure there was no one else he would trust to have his back in an undercover position. However, it wouldn't hurt to merely consult with other agents occasionally. He took a deep breath. It was a heady feeling being handed his future on a silver platter with no strings attached. He was trying to couch his acceptance in terms that didn't seem too eager when something about Peter's demeanor caught his attention.

"Are you sure this is what _you_ want?" he asked. He waved aside Peter's automatic confirmation. "I'm not talking about your partnership with me. I mean returning to the FBI."

Peter silence told him that he'd not only found a sore spot, but thoroughly poked it. The silence spoke volumes about Peter's state of mind. He was gently swashing the remains of his coffee around his cup, seemingly fascinated by the ripples. For once in his life, Neal was at a loss for words. Peter and the FBI fit together, the hallowed halls of the Bureau encompassing and amplifying Peter's protective and investigative tendencies - his personal motto of "Do the Right Thing" more significant when backed by a badge.

However, over the last few years, starting with Fowler and ending with Tomkins, it was clear that not everybody in the organization shared his integrity. In this very room, an Assistant Director had held a gun to the head of Peter's beloved wife, and Neal remembered the bone-white shock on Peter's face when he realised he was the sacrificial goat in the putative terrorist plot. All this had to have shaken his faith in the FBI.

"A few bad apples don't make the whole organisation rotten," he gently reminded the agent.

"I know that." Peter finally met his gaze. "At least, my head knows that. I know the Bureau still stands for something important, and I still love those ideals, but maybe I'm not the same person anymore. I can no longer blithely trust in the chain of command."

Neal nodded his understanding. "Well, as you pointed out earlier, we have choices. If you don't want to work for the FBI, we could do something else instead."

The use of the plural personal pronoun did not escape Peter's notice, and an incipient smile tugged at his lips. "Okay, I'm listening. What could we do instead?"

Neal threw his arms out in an expansive gesture. "The world is our oyster! WIth our combined talents, what couldn't we do - up to and including world domination! - not that I was thinking of anything illegal," he added hastily.

"Well, since I'm not ready to don a black cloak and grow a mustache for twirling, would you care to be more specific?"

"I was thinking something along the lines of Caffrey and Burke, Private Investigators."

Peter caught on to his enthusiasm. "Burke and Caffrey, Raiders of the Lost Submarines."

"Caffrey and Burke," Neal muttered sotto voce.

"No, it's definitely Burke and Caffrey. Age before Beauty, B before C. Besides a one syllable name works best first - Butch and Sundance, never Sundance and Butch."

"What about Starsky and Hutch?"

"We are not Starsky and Hutch."

"No, but it's never Hutch and Starsky."

"But it is Holmes and Watson."

"That's only because Watson was the sidekick. I'm not your sidekick." Seeing that the subject was about to be derailed at the first obstacle, Neal hastily changed the focus. "Let's quibble about names later. The point is that you have options too. If you don't want to return to the FBI, then don't."

Peter smiled at him with real affection. "I think for now I need to go back. But you're right, I need to know I have a back-up plan, that I can walk away when I choose. Here's my suggestion. We go back to the FBI for two years. If, at the end of that time, either of us is unhappy and wants to try something different, then we'll give Burke and Caffrey, Entrepreneurs, a chance. Deal?"

Peter held out his hand, and Neal clasped it. "Deal." He wasn't surprised when the older man pulled him it to a cautious hug, mindful of both of their injuries.

It was a win-win situation. Either way, they was guaranteed satisfying challenges and fulfilling work. He had everything he wanted from life - and people he loved to share it with. Who would have thought, when he handed a lollipop to the prowling FBI agent, that it would end like this, that their relationship would morph into this comfortable partnership. It had matured from an infancy of pursuit, through a childhood of jail and an adolescence of ankle monitoring. Now he was grateful for Peter's anchoring presence in his life.

He resumed his needling. "RIzzoli and Isles, Bonnie and Clyde."

"Well that's just desperation and disproves your case immediately."

"Let's play poker for the right to name our company."

"You cheat at poker - every time. Don't forget, I've seen you do it. I wouldn't bet the rest of your soup in a poker game. I'll play you at cribbage."

"You're kidding. That's for old women."

"Don't tell El that. The simplest solution is to toss for it - but my coin." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, balancing it on his thumb and forefinger, then flicked.

The coin span in the air.


End file.
